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We both were people looking for blood.
Looking for the vessel, a flesh
to fill our favorite story
of the most sorrowful love.
All that we dreamed of
was hurt at first sight.
This was never about love.
This was never about us.
The moment, the feeling
that could outlive us
after taking our lives,
we have only yearned for it.
How wonderful
that we are finally here.
Here to start this spectacular thing
that will be the end us.
.
I guess now I am the cruel one-
the one people fear to love.
This scenario was meant to be sad,
but it isn’t somehow.
(Why do the worst cases taste so bland to me
when finally they arrive?)
I guess it makes me relieved, if not happy,
to feel loneliness more often than feeling distance.
No one knocks at my door,
and I can’t help but smile
knowing it also means no would leave me.
No one would leave me in love, leave me in pieces,
leave me hating myself again.
(Why do my hopes sound like running away
even if I am facing life in every way I can,
the only way I am allowed to,
the only way forward that doesn’t require
sacrificing myself again?)
as i get inside the crowded bus,
a phone rings.
a ringtone just like yours.
has the world shrunk to the size
of the tragedy we created,
that i find you like this?
i know it is not you,
but it could be.
so i do not turn back.
it could be you,
so i try not to cry.
this is not where
walking away or breaking clean
should lead to.
at least not back to you.
at least not like this.
not on the day i finally felt
that i could move toward a new happiness.
why did you come back?
to tell me how i am not worthy of anything good?
to tell me no one can love something like me?
to tell me how thinking is unhealthy for love like ours?
to check if my skin remembers your anger?
to tell me to speak softly, to submit to your wishes
if i wish to be forgiven for your mistakes?
why did you come back,
when you don’t even want me?
in the graveyard of stars
lies our love
without the burden of our hearts
now
finally
it shines the way
we always hoped we would
so the saint i read about
walked this land,
looked at this river, looked at this sky,
and stood where I stand.
in the cases of glass there are letters,
there are feelings i cannot understand.
they say he made this place with love
here his everything ends, where his nothing began.
but the glass turned into mirrors
his writing became face of mine.
i was pricked by the bitterness
that were not supposed to be in his words.
how can he say the things we say?
how can his cruelty be pardoned for his principle?
why can i not call him hero
like i used to, like everyone still does?
why his truth makes me shrink away from every other truth?
why does his life disappoint me so much?
i came here seeking nothing
but i left losing a lot
and doubting a lot.
on my way back
i left the what he once gave me
and finally picked up what i should have.
The noise of the crumpled tissues walked upon
fills me up again.
Without the colors of reasons or pain
that once made it unbearable,
I envy that me who could be so passionately
sad for the someone else
or even for myself.
Now the the rivers of concern run beneath the surface of my heart
almost lost, in hiding.
(Or am I the one in hiding.)
And now I can finally be almost happy in life.
While you read my words
and said,
“How strange is this world!”
Sunlight rushed in,
to hold a strand of your hair,
fell on these pages
and cried out like a child,
hurt that it could not have you.
I smiled to myself knowing what you meant.
These words of mine reminded you of the confusing
and volatile shores of right and wrong
that often you found yourself standing on.
And never knew when the land shifted,
when the tide came in.
Never knew when you changed your heart.
You thought it was strange.
But I know what your words mean,
it is same for me.
The strange feeling in my words
is a mere attempt to copy your strangeness,
your beauty.
So that the defeated packets of sunlight
can finally rest on the curves of your words.
My seasons are excited
to be finally released into the world again,
after wrecking havoc over people
whom they saw as trees to be burnt
and rivers to be flood.
Before they leave me
they look into my eyes,
and again they have
misunderstood the fear in my eyes
as my wish.
Again I prepare my heart for the disasters
I must take responsibility for.
On the bridge that you cross every morning,
once sat your heart watching the sea,
looking for her face.
And now when you have finally found her face,
you miss the sea that you lost.
Strangely,
her heart no longer sounded like
an empty room,
an empty stage,
an empty world
with only her voice.
Strangely, for once
a voice came into this emptiness
and filled it with warmth
greater than her,
greater than her sorrow.
This poem, that she held in her hands.
This poem, that she holds in her eyes
that she holds in her tears.
Makes her feel as if
finally she is not alone.
it rains in my heart 