Long after the fire died out, the ashes held the story of the warmth of the night. I did not know whether to let it linger on in me for awhile or to let the early morning dewdrops descend on my brows; to let the warmth of the ashes die in my tryst with the in vigor.
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I refused the wind’s assistance, I refused its impediment. The wind smiled at my repudiation to the dreams of the spring and the memories of the winter. Little did I know that it was I who was hugging the wind and stepping in its current.
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I would not make that call to her. She would not wait. And the nights would pass. But we would still remember the day we made the last call.
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She tells me that she cannot give me tomorrow. Well, isn’t it enough to pencil my tomorrow?
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I always wrote in love, I always wrote when I fell out of it. My friend, I always wrote.
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I drew an arc in the night sky and my beloved’s stars stringed its ends. And while we lay completing each other’s circle, the dawn announced its advent.
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Why does it pain the most when the wound is the least visible?
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Take me away, to the life that I could never live. Bring me back to myself.
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I gazed at the lines of my palms and wondered how they held my narrative. This thought remained until I met a man coming from the war who had his arms amputated.
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1 comment:
Sure I will always remember when we spoke last
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