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Abstract 2

Abstract #2

By Lourd de Veyra

a moment burns itself into a photograph of a house somewhere in your memory-- the sun had crept up from the pall of buildings, with that warm sensation that consoles you after a death, or listening to the voice of a loved one who had just woken up to a cold strange morning. i had just gotten off the phone talking to my sister, a thousand miles away. 'lovely,' she greeted, clumsily copping a fake british lip, i know i was supposed to smile and chuckle but i couldn't--it registered like a black note in my ear, a sad chord played on a battered grand piano covered in dust in the middle of a soundless hall, draped in shadows. i woke up to the rustle of dove wings outside my window, she said, the frost filling her voice, icicles forming across the void between us, whereas i inhabit a place melting under the sun-- so equally lonely, so parched. nothing else to drink here but fetid, tepid water from rusty faucets-- the purified bitterness dousing our desperations, contaminated with sewage of memories; nothing else on the table but clumps of cold rice and greasy fish peppered with flies. Numb from early morning humidity, the vapor of loss, i walk to the bathroom to trim my beard. there, it is dark. the face on the mirror looks old, the scissors are sharp, the floor cold like the voice of someone dead, or lost. snipping sounds crisply cut through the silence, and down on the white tiles dark feathery things softly fall, so soft, so slow so unlike snow.

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