He thinks you look like a summer child
with your skin, the color of pale mango nectar.
Your on-cue, practiced, camera-smile
blinds and burns like a Boracay sky.
(He calls you sweet; you know that’s a lie.)
Inside, you are made of Baguio hailstone,
too cold to be charmed by sugar and sun.
Preferring, instead, the chill of rain:
an unfulfilled promise of ice and snow.