Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere flows freely shaking water down my arms, pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment, consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears. Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things. Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning? I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world. Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City. It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies. Why this house, and why you? I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades. Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose, or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall. I presume there are photographs of you in every corner to remind you of your gathered storms. I know not the smell of your home, but I have your nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer. Make use of bowls with evening water and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there, the China will remind me of your elliptical face in the intensity of leaving. Your eyes the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear. I have been to too many neighborhoods, I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse. The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close to break in sidereal circles. Why this house? Because you are in it, and outside, through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight, you pretend you see nobody.