Eileen Tabios


He has a gaze like an antique mirror.
When she will be excavated in a hundred years, her bones will have calcified in her fetal position.
Under his left eye, he has a scar that people never see but recall in memory.
Once, she summoned sufficient energy to fix him a martini as they stood in a stranger's penthouse, an entire city blazing its lights through tall, wide windows.
She says, I become honest when midnight begins to age.
Their fathers agree in their despair.
The colors they see are unrelenting.
Her perfume never fails to linger.
He feels her hair and is caressed by silk:
The departing slide away from his skin is the only consolation he wil ever experience.

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