From wherever it may be,
if I keep walking straight
and try not to think of the destination,
eventually I feel the pavement turn to dust.
Slowly, stones dating to the oldest dates
in the recorded history of my life
start appearing one by one.
They sprout new mouths, they learn new words,
they grow into roads, into pillars,
into gateways, and into the walls of the places
where I am no longer welcome.
The fabric of present, my strange choice of words,
my skin that doesn’t belong to this time
all such things make me an alien, make me a pitiful stranger
in a place I know more than myself.
My laughter lives in those places,
with people who can’t find their way to me,
just like I can’t find my way to them.
I hold onto the walls when my tears start killing me,
I tell myself, it will be fine, if I just keep walking.
I tell myself, I will eventually remember my way out of this moment,
as I always have.
But now I can’t. I don’t want to. Maybe I am not meant to.
Maybe the answer lies in never forgetting,
maybe that’s the love I am meant to have.
Maybe waiting is the answer that will suit my weak heart,
since pretending can only get me this far.
I sit on the benches of deserted parks with my bloodless heart,
and I imagine melting here in this imaginary sun.
I feel happiness might have been something like that,
but I can’t remember it, even though it was once mine.
Every few days
I feel the urge to get out
of this house that feels so full of myself.
Guilt of a comfortable life
forces me out,
so I take a stroll
I wish I said that I went to a park
but I didn’t.
But I do remember going there once or twice.
Or was it a whole month of healthy choices
and healthy promises
that I knew I would never follow through.
The morning was sweet, and air was nice
and I felt a happiness I had never known.
They were probably the lightest hours
that I ever lived.
it was too much for me to take.
it lured me to a different life
and asked me to change.
And that is where I stop
in front of racks of cookies
in front of billing counter,
if front of calories I have no hunger for.
Knowing that I won’t change,
but hoping that I do.
In the park , by the bench,
There stands a tree,
Which has seen innumerable seasons pass
and innumerable humans pass,
Seen their laughter and tears dissolve into past.
With ‘its’ fresh new leaves lost to fresh fallen snow
And ‘its’ dead fallen leaves on the ground
Walked upon by dead fallen souls.
Lost ‘its’ fruits to cruel season and hungry mouths.
Stripped away of ‘its’ branches and its pride.
‘It’ stands there now, not noticed by an eye.
In the dew covered grass
‘It’ feels my steps.
In he morning fog
‘It’ hears my cries.
I feel ‘it’ looking down on me
How my loss is more important than ‘its’.
‘It’ suffered everything in silence.