My hands become a mouth and speaks / a prayer that my voice cannot. / I do this with three knocks on the wood / One to announce, Two to confirm, and Three for good measure. / The rain in Kabignayan becomes a letter / for you / that I carefully fold / into three / for good measure /  I remember your face / already in surrender / the white flag a postcard / you'll never give to me / but keep / as the last piece of me / while I decrease from you/ r memory. There is music that turns / into monuments / the words become white flags, too / the honey in them like variations / of winter / which does not exist / at home. There is music that turns into exit wounds / In July, I think it's when they hurt the most. / The gray in the sky became a fuse / and the rain / into detonation / I pretend raindrops to be snow / rivulets drop in my palms and wish they were / a tad gentler than just falling. / I recognize cold is also a variation of surrender. /  I miss you  just enough / to know  not to come back.  There used to be good days / after the bad ones. / There used to be days / I wished for my hands to become trees instead / So I can be prayer enough to be forgiven. / Be omen enough / to believe in it. /  I wish I can be wish enough to ask / to be included again. / Tenderness is fruit nurtured with promise / So for now, with my hands made of flesh / I knock on the wood / I sleep holding a box / I dream of a forest / as if any of it were a door / as if to say Please / Let me in / But this is my white flag. I remember the music / you sent to me. / halfnoise. / half postcard / I remember our last message / I last keep / this memory / while I decrease from you.