Her Name Is Joy.

Her name is Joy. I saw her come out of the village. The jeepney driver waited for her to cross the street. Joy kissed her girlfriend—both, in a sullen mood. She boarded the jeep. Her lover stood still, spitted like a young man with her hands inside her pocket. She turned away, head bent. Joy had her last glimpse of her—at seven in the morning. How sad was it—Joy? To leave the house empty before it had been lived; inside, leaning to a wall called home? Had you ever been home? Maybe, she noticed me. I tried not to stare. I felt the heaviness of her fingers trying to reach out and call—flipping, flipping, flipping. Restless, she closed her eyes leaving a deep sigh. Was it parting? Her end of joy? Did it ever begin— Anyway? Tall—she sat bent on the narrow bench of the jeepney. Her long hair covered her face—hiding the sadness. Her fair young face, gazed blankly at the cold morning beaten by summer heat. She avoided my eyes. I avoided the slant of arrows— piercing through her—aimlessly hitting me. I closed my eyes and called —where is the “woman” calling on the street? Why had she not raised her voice in the public squares? I cried out—how long, for how long will you keep her in her simple ways”? A tear fell from her eyes.