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February 26, 2019
Home is in bed with Mama -- scarfing down an In-N-Out burger. Home is a park bench in Baguio -- weeping to Transatlanticism. Home is a hot day in Manila -- looking at you, stifling a smile at the thought of how much I like your eyes. Home is 1988 in Luneta -- a gloomy day, a double deck bus selling hotdog sandwiches. Home is a hospital bed -- the smell of death; your warm, trembling hand in mine. Home is grey sand in Zambales -- sunburn, your laughter. Home is a rainy night -- your soft snore, the smell of your nape, fog outside.