[larger version or via Flickr]

Amber moon, 12 April 2008. I was walking past the window when I noticed how low the moon was. Quickly, I set up my tripod and camera, snapping away before it was gone. There is a small white light acting as a focal point in the photo. The aligned photos based on the dot are how the moon descended into the back of the hill. If you click on the larger image, you can actually see the crater of the moon.

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He gives the cigarette a light tap with the back of his right index finger as the thumb and middle fingers held on to it. Benson & Hedges, the elegant letters imprinted on the edge of the filtered rod. His sixth finger, he called it. The ashes ventured a short distance before landing on the wet concrete floor.

“Damn rain,” he muttered under the heavy alcoholic breathe as he avoids the scattered puddles.

Finally, he found an unoccupied bench and wipe away the droplets with his bare hand; the one with the five fingers. “Damn the lovers,” he cursed again. At least it’s not an isolated park. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come here everyday after work. The kind of work that allows him to stay long past the forgiven hour. The kind of work that deny anyone else a dinner appointment.

Sometimes, he had hoped that things were a little different. A little better and a little easier. He wished that she would understand him a little better. There are plentiful of things he wanted to tell her. The things he is afraid to tell her, the things that he never tells a soul. Not even the amber moon in the quiet sky.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s too late now. These days, he wishes differently. He doesn’t need. He only wants. He wants to be in the cradle of her mind, her love and her bosom. Wishing is all he could do.