I won’t ask any questions
that you can’t answer
and there are so many of them.
Everything I want to ask,
everything I want to tell you
is always something that I shouldn’t.
I am tied up by all that can’t let myself do.
But at the same time
I want some kind of happiness with you-
a brief dream, a conversation to recall,
a piece of you that no one else can have.
How shall I come closer to you
without alarming you?
What shall I do
for you to know my heart?
A last chance again brushes past me
and a list gathers in me like aimless insects
gathering around their last light.
They talk to each other
about all the things that they had hoped
they would find by now.
One by one tears fill up in the eyes
of every wish,
when one of them says that
it spends its days
marking a good day on calendar
to end everything.
That every star it joins
on the worksheet of night sky
spells out the name of the one
that could have been its answer.
It feels sad because
everytime it is a new name
and sometimes a name that it doesn’t remember.
It hurts that the name it can cry for
is not one but many.
It hurts more that to think
that in that one forgotten name
maybe lies the memory of a day
that should never have been forgotten.
You say, “There are two of me and two of you
and if we are trying to be precise in the count of us
I think there are many me and many you.”
Does it even matter, to think about
all the people we were just for a day?
To complain about a love that didn’t fade
but changed from one thing to another.
To complain that it changed
even when it found a way to survive somehow.
When it is trying so hard,
when it has stayed so long
do you really want to sit here
and count the ways
in which it is not what you thought it would be,
that it is somehow lacking
and breaking your heart.
I cannot hear you count again
all future you saw in me,
to be reminded
of all the things I hoped from you.
I cannot stand here and look through the real us
that we have, that has sustained
all our disappointment,
that is better than what we want.
How long can we stay at sidelines
and watch a flower being crushed.
How many can we save even if we try?
There are many flowers on numerous path
and there are many people who have places to go.
She left the door ajar
and closed the curtains as she left,
like she did so many things
that I didn’t ask her to do.
Like so many things I didn’t notice.
Did I fear darkness of the room?
Did I fear drifting into sleep
no longer be sure
that this body would continue breathing?
I feared a lot.
I knew the names of imaginary insects
that crawled inside my mind.
But only she knew how to close my eyes
and close my heart
to the pain and paranoia
that only I could feel.
I woke up to curtains soaking the sunlight
and the sweet humming from next room.
And I didn’t want this humming
to go farther
I have not known
what it is like
to stop looking for ways to prove
people and their minds
as the root of my the problems.
What is it like
to stop hurting others,
thinking everyone out there
has something against me.
What it is to undo the harm
of many many hands.
What is it like to help someone forget
the pain of living.
I open a paper that will travel
but will not have the good fate
of getting lost.
The confessions of my affection
reaches every ear
but not your heart.
The cry that was stuck in my throat
turned out to be my name ,
that I had forgotten long ago.
Probably when there were too many of me
for me to hold,
to make space for the all other names
that I must never forget.
How often have I let go of my own hand
to hold the hand of others?
How often the part of me that threw away
never wanted to return to me?
How often I have been left empty handed
and alone at the end?
Yet I go down this same road
only for your sake.
I make some space on my cluttered desk
for my head to rest its worries.
And I find a string of light
as a keepsake
to take with me when I’m buried.
What else am I going to miss?
There are so many things I miss in life already.
But I can’t make my heart strong enough
to reach out to a life
that I have lived without.
I can’t make myself
go out of this room
open the door to see
the spring that I always dreamt of,
the spring that waits for me outside.
There are moments of indifference
that once piled up
seems more than the years I have lived.
There are too many memories
where I cannot see anyone but myself
running around in a dark cave
afraid of everything I bump into.
Not knowing that even if I shout
if anyone would hear,
sometimes fearful of who might hear me.
And even though
you are out of your cave
and I am out of mine.
Now when we can see all the things we couldn’t.
Now when we can really see each others scars.
Now when we have the luxury to know each others pain.
it is better to pretend we are still in our caves.
For too many things have been done,
too many words have been said.
And we do not remember answers to question
that we wanted each other to ask.