I Love You Like How I Love Manila
I love you like I love Manila—
imperfect, bright, a little wild;
you stumble through your own ideas
yet charm me like a stubborn child.
You call yourself “ungainly,”
like rooftops needing new design;
but even old Manila knows
that flaws can age like vintage wine.
Your eyes—two lantern stories
lit softly when the night is thin;
your heart—half saint, half quiet joke,
a mix I shouldn’t love… yet grin.
You carry little plot twists
in corners you forget to hide;
you’re chaos with a courteous bow,
you’re warm annoyance, dignified.
You sometimes smell of trouble—
that thunder-before-rain kind of air;
yet I return the way I do
to city lights I shouldn’t care.
You fuss like clocks in rush-hour—
tick faster than they need to be;
you claim you’re “fine” (which means you’re not),
your honesty is subtlety.
And still, I love you like Manila—
in contrasts spun with quiet art;
I thought I’d never linger long…
then found you furnishing my heart.