Sagada.

One day when the weather is
warm,

goosebumps will emerge on my
skin,

in memory of mountains washed in
fog.

They will say, someone walked
on your grave.

Someone who hasn’t thought
of you in years

shivered, and held his
jacket fast to his chest,

bowed and said
your name against the wind.

But
that day, you said, hold my hand,

I
don’t want you to fall and hurt
yourself.

We walked up into thinner
air.

I saw limestone cliffs, covered in
green silence.

You said,
that’s where they keep their
dead.

They visit when there aren’t
too many tourists.

I wondered what they
could possibly say.

See you soon? Sorry
there was nothing I could do?

I
would have told you the same things,
except

I was too busy rubbing my hands
and the cold

had dug too deeply into the
hollows of my bones.

Not even love
is proof against these mountains.

They
will stand while we eke out the
words,

brittle as the tongues that make
them,

the crack of barbed twigs, mist
breaking on rock.

I will remember
how we walked up together

and how we went
down, each to our own quiet,

past love
and grief and the remains of words,

one
day when the weather is warm.