MISS
by Franz Austin De Mesa
M
issing has become a misnomer. I see it passed around mistakenly, see it miss its marks and what it used to mean. Maybe it’s because we’ve said it so often: I miss traveling, I miss visiting friends, I miss a lot of things. Like the mist that forms on the windows of LRT after rain, or the catching of my breath as I rush through the downpour with wet misguided feet. I long again for the sore bump from falling drunk on the sidewalk, the misaligned bone, the sprained ankle—mementos of misfits that misbehaved.
HINTAYAN
109
