Mayáp a yábak.


The first ray of sunlight peek through half closed curtains.  I don’t see it yet, but I can feel the trees dancing against the gentle wind. I can smell them as I breathe in.  I smell the earth damp with dew, with a promise of a new bud that will spring to life in the first few seconds of this silent morning.  I can hear the music of the swaying leaves outside and a distant sound of running water. The morning is cold and quiet. The kind you rarely wake up to.

My eyelash flutters against your cheek, I feel your body move. Golden sun rays starts to fill the room, casting shadows along used coffee mugs on the table, keys and old chairs. White blankets and pillows are now saturated with early light. Your breath starts to get uneven yet calm, a sign that somehow this splendor has awoken you too.  Far-away, a door opens.

And you said you love me, half awake.

Your hands reached out to my face.

And I whispered “I love you” back.

Then you smile with your eyes closed.  Ever so softly, birds nearby starts to sing.


Published by

Jona Alday

A corporate slave who finds joy in motivating and leading people but ultimately yearns for weekends and plotted vacation leaves. An Engineering graduate who HATES Math. An acrophobic who conquers mountains. A lover of sleepy towns, dawn, poetry, pancit canton and cats.

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