Dreaming still

I don't know why this has a surreal feel.
I am teaching one more time and it seems I am floating with you in dreamland (so don't go thinking that you are alone, mi vida.)

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I have been talking to a colleague, love. I can't help but feel that I really am dreaming of becoming a writer... still. You have been patronizing my work, this I know.
Maybe someday, I would find the courage to finally join the Palanca Memorial Award.
Or be a playwright.

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I am not exactly bursting with ideas now. I am not even bleeding with metaphors or am I bursting in poetic farts. I just feel dead in the middle of the night without the slightest hint of your presence, except for your cologne I sprayed all over my body.

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A while ago, I had this sudden impulse to check the new public drive. I confess, I was looking for your picture. I was able to find it, mind you.
And it brought a huge smile on my face. My smile, if you are terribly curious, looked like the wonderful smile you had in that picture.

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