A Good Match
Intaglios of your cold fingers
Drenched with my tears are right here
On my wrists and ankles
Shoulders and back
Nape and hips and legs
They’re all over me
Scintillating despite the lackadaisical body
I never thought
Flecks could be so beautiful
Beautiful, so beautiful
You are, your calloused hands
Putting their weight on my frailty
Delicately snatching the caress
Left for my coalescing bones
Lovely, so lovely
You are, your manner of inflicting
Whips with your words
Chastise with your infinite chances
I, myself have given
Intransigently, so intransigently.
Against the Odds
“Death isn’t the opposite of life. It is a part of life.”
The flow of blood and the beating of the heart end up pausing for too long that it becomes impossible to return. The capturing of sceneries and reliving of memories are the easiest things to do when you’re about to lose the ability to be a part of sceneries and memories of other people. The feigning laughter and melancholic tears pass away. Life is a vast collection of bittersweet vanity.
Our moments are excruciatingly beautiful. We know that our loved ones will depart, our cup of coffee becomes empty, our mushroom soups get cold, our bodies walk towards our graves, everything vanishes in the end. This is the best knowledge we could give to ourselves – death is on our side.
How are we supposed to live an ephemeral life? We don’t have to be miserable. We should be grateful that our wounds stay for a little while, not always. We should be grateful that we can love despite our limitations. We should be grateful that we’re not meant to run around distorted circles until we become sick of it. We should be grateful for the coffee, we saw the difference between hot and cold. We should be grateful.
We should be grateful. And the greatest act of gratefulness in life is to live as if death is in every step we take.
The Road Taken
I look at the stars and wonder how long they’ve been waiting for someone to tell them that they don’t have to appear to be beautiful. Someone who will drink a cup of coffee while the splattering rain hit the window cracked by the howling wind and will say, “I can’t see the beautiful stars.” Someone who will believe in their beauty without seeing it all the time. Someone who will ask what’s behind the twinkling surface.
Because stars are sad. They’re there, dazzling while dying.