bopis

Summer, and under the shade of a shut up Carillon, I begin the practice of distance. Beloved will work elsewhere, live elsewhere, leaving her incandescent metaphors. Co-teachers stay, but do they really? Do I know who they will be besides their same names and sane faces? Also, students go. That’s what they’re supposed to do, study and go. What I hear are tricycles and people cooing at their expensive dogs and the wind that hisses and hints at a catalog of all that I do not hear. And will never. Friends stop the flow of words dead and the only way these could live is to say them again and again until I wear the meaning out of them, like how imagine there were once cities back in the day when Makiling held back her volcano words. Then the accursed snakebird brought her a gift, the thought she might one day lose them, these people she loved. Already missing them, she sang her grief and she cried and she sang. It was in this manner of fire that she lost them. It would be 300,000 years before a university was possible. When I entered this university four years ago, there was kapok in the air and a tower could yet sing.

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