Leaving Anda

We're always leaving in the morning to sunrises and puffy pink clouds.

* * * * *

We left Anda without really noticing it. Chris evinced none of his usual sorrow at leaving a place, or, rather having to endure change. Instead, his face had a look on it of absence or preoccupation, his brows two crinkling caterpillars arched toward embrace.

We're in Jagna now, come too early for the ferry to Camiguin. A nice breeze blows. I like the look of the palm trees, stark against the slate sky.

* * * * *

I'm deliriously tired again. Slept poorly. The mosquitoes bit my toes through the netting. And then there was so little room in that tiny tent, especially when we took such pains not to let our sticky skins touch. Each change in position became a delicate maneuver. Then a reactionary shuffling from the other. A couple of wide-eyed blinks before drowsiness and the outlines of a dream took over. Thank God no karaoke, though.