* She was a passenger of air-conditioned cars or taxicabs who never really knew what it was like to jostle elbows, thread on toes, sink in a whirlpool of flailing smells, and run half a block to climb with one foot on the threshold to what will take you home, and with another foot to a possible fatal fall, or to simply a realization that one was left behind. But though she may not be that familiar with coarse, ripped ticket papers, with compressed, humid-stricken bodies, or blurred blank faces surrendering just to get to a destination, this passenger learned or knew how to walk. She was a passenger of the asphalt, of stars on the pavement, a commuter of a nimbus-red night or a weeping full moon sky. And at nights when the moon is simply a silver sliver, a faint smile, or a half-closed eyelid, she becomes a traveler of the wind, who will always know in her heart that the moon is simply seemingly sleeping but surveying whether she is still just there, a passenger of Selene's sky.

--To me, by Margaret Gisala-Rutaquio
(I miss you)