I dreamt of a cold day, of a gray sky, of your warmth dissolving in air, of your smile being erased.
I lay on your bed surrounded by, covered in all the clothes you won’t ever wear. I saw myself crying, refusing to eat or sleep waiting for a new world to be created or to leave the world that I am in.
But eventually I woke up, I cleaned up my room, I threw out everything that mattered to me. I went to shop for a stomach that knows hunger a heart that can forget, a dream, a life without you. I thought I loved you more than this.
I want to write about the boring,
about all that is insignificant,
about the trust that lasts,
about the promises that are kept,
about the things we don’t have to beg from god.
I belive there must be some things in life that goes as we wanted to, that didn’t take our effort, our prayers to go right, that fell into place so naturally that we didn’t even notice the ease they gave us. The boring that is neglected, that is mocked must be a dream for a person I don’t know of. The days of charity and donation, the realization of the lack that we don’t experience hits us only briefly, gives us only short lived sadness or gratitude and a bit of pride (that has a little longer life) in ourselves for venturing out of our boredom to witness the lacking of others, to distribute a bit of what we have in abundance.
But I am not that changed, I am not that affected. Tomorrow when I wake up I will forget about the stomachs that are never filled, about the dry glass and throats, about the darkness that night brings, about little curious eyes that will never see a book. Tomorrow, again I will shamelessly write about my need for love and acceptance.
But that is how I am and with time I have learned not to feel guilty for being like this, for that is the kind of human I was made to be. I will only be bothered by the small bruise on my face, the small cuts on my hand, even if I know the existence of greater pain, for that knowledge is not an anesthetic . I am a petty creature like that and I can only really feel my own loss.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.
What makes us lose our sleep
is the fear of each other
that keeps us awake,
keeps us on guard all our life.
If it was just slaughter that we feared
we could still calm our nerves.
But we fear an invasion followed by abandonment,
that makes it that much more difficult
to overcome the urge to lock out the love
that could solve everything,
as it is also capable
of making us aware
of a deeper pain
a deeper loss
than the one we are already suffering of.
My hope waits for the day that this skin won’t alien,
like a loss,
like a counter running out of number
like our voices running out of things to say.
And my wishes for a gentler nature,
or to be that cool-headed person I once read about,
or to be the running stream of water
before it was poisoned.
All changed to wanting
something that is not waiting to vanish.
“So much has been lost”
she said as she turned the page.
I looked at her
and then resumed my efforts of escape
as she did.
I couldn’t ask her what she meant
for this question exists
between us like a distance
that connects us.
I feared that
I could never
recount my losses to myself every night,
if I came to know hers.
I could never pity myself
if I witnessed her breaking.
Surely we have
at least a page in every book we write,
where we brood over
all the things we lost.
And I have often found that page to be
As if we become better humans
by this loss.
Often on those pages,
I have realized,
not all losses
are to be cried upon.
I want to be the shiver
that runs through your body,
when you think of the one you love.
There are far more easier things
to say, to want
but they loose their meaning
as they make their way to my mouth.
As the days with you
I find there are more ways of loving you
that the ways I did.
I find there are countless days ahead
days without me
and my absence has less to do with loss of love
and more with the cruelty of life
and nature of my soul.
How lonely it is to walk alone
even if I walk with you.
How easy it would be to accept this
if only I could become a part of you.
If I would wake up one day
and realise that I am
just one of the many voices in your head.
I think it would be easier to justify this loneliness
if we both are but one.
To know that we can never be separated.
How beautiful it would be, to become your love itself
rather than someone you love.
By the grave of your every love,
I have cried for nights.
For the love they took to their graves
and the life you have lost.
This life that demands me to suffer without hope.
This ocean that I never thought my feet would touch.
The night seem so lonely,
not having someone to
look for me
when I have lost my way
inside the wreck of your life.
Trying to heal the wounds that
you never gave me the right to touch.
The gravestone cries with me.
Like this gravestone,
I mark the life
of the love you lost.