From the lowest branch
of the falling tree
I looked up
and heard someone laugh.
I have been reborn thousand times after that
as I walk on the charcoal roads
lined with white tulips
that never light up,
as my foot slips
I hear that laugh again.
I hear it
when I cook food
and end up staring a bit too long at the flame,
when the smoke that kills, coats everything
that fills my stomach.
It is stuck in my heart, the violence of the end.
The bluest sky, the sweetest wind,
the flying songs, and my muffled cries-
crystallized as one.
One tiny map, that tells no directions,
forever stuck in the corner of my eye.
It plays like a record, plays hide and seek.
It is a play that ends
with the stories breaking into me.
“The sky is your canvas”,
the book to all ailments said,
“there is a joy in filling it up with life.”
But as I finished my 157th sketch,
as I finished my 300th one,
as I finished the one with no count attached
(the one I called “the limits that were stronger than me”),
as I write over all that I had drawn,
as the clouds dragged themselves painfully
crawling to some better place,
like everything else in my life
the sky remained unchanged.
And when I lost my hands to fate, to slow corrosion,
to the burden of creation,
to the lady in white who couldn’t even lie that “it won’t hurt”,
to the painful work of making up things that I want,
things that would want me back, or at least won’t walk out,
to the hunch that said something is seriously wrong
with the kind of life I have.
I wished for the man in the sky
to wake up and get to work,
to make me some rain,
to drop an ocean of crystal on this world,
to paint a heaven on this cheap sky of this miserable man.
Because trying on some days, on most days now,
feels like living against the wishes of the world.
I can’t help but break a bit, cry a bit
even when things are right,
because they right only because of my efforts.
Can you give me something that I don’t have to work hard for,
something that was made for me,
something that I can keep.
A thing, a person, a sign
that I can hold in my hand
that tells me that you want me to be happy,
that you want me to smile,
that I am not abandoned after all.
What does a beautiful day look like?
Your smile filling my heart
with the sweetness that I hate.
The crystals of sugar, your gentle words
cover everything in the world,
like a world lost in a blizzard
all that kept me on my feet vanishes.
I breathe easier because you are here.
What does a beautiful day day look like?
There are no beautiful days dear.
There are just days that we were happy,
the days I will look back with tears in my heart,
with these weak hands that could never hold onto you.
Make me a little more happier love,
give me one more reason to be sad
when you are gone.