Sigh

Sigh.
The proverbial sigh.
Born of dilemmas.
And bad choices,
Of ambivalence.

Sigh.
The proverbial sigh.
A plea to the most high,
An appeal to make the wrong right.
For you who’s scared of the light.

Sigh.
The proverbial sigh.
With clenched fists, stone cold.
And heartbeats on hold.
Sigh.

Sand.

You’ll have it for a while,
For the briefest time,
For the slowest seconds
That the sand touches your hands,
And escape their gaps
Right before you close them–
Right before you see
That it’s not there to stay,
Not for eternity,
Neither for all of its time,
And most especially nor yours.

It’ll haunt you for a while,
Why you lose what you adore,
To gain something you’d wonder,
“Is this more?”
But you know it isn’t so,
It never will.
Not for something that’s dead to begin with,
Not for something whose start already ended.

It’ll kill you for a while,
Why you cannot get what you give,
Why you cannot give what you receive,
Not because you want to,
But because your conscience tell you,
This isn’t so.
Because it isn’t the balance of the world,
Not where the universe rests.
…but the universe never rests!
And perhaps this is so,
The cycle.

But it cannot be.
Not yet.
I’m willing.
To wait it out.
For something to happen.
In its own time.
But what I know.
It isn’t now.

Don’t

Don’t make me hold your heart.
Don’t trust me with it.
Don’t make me play this part.
Don’t think we can both bear it.

Don’t put your trust in me.
Don’t plant all the seeds here.
Don’t believe that everything’s what you see.
Don’t believe that everything’s what you hear.

Don’t drown me in your kindness.
Don’t think I can give what you’re after in return.
Don’t think that I deserve such fondness.
Don’t bet that I can reciprocate when it’s my turn.

Sola

You’ve died a thousand deaths.
From way too far away lives.
Yet you always come back here,
To walk among us,
Just like us.
Because we never learn.
And whatever it is,
That the universe fancies,
We are at its mercy.
And if it sees,
That yes, we never learn,
We’ll get thrown back to the seas
Of faces, and places,
Of forgetfulness.
And a tinge of bliss.

It was never fair.
For we have no way to carry out
What we knew before
To who we are now,
And maybe that’s the point–
It’s hit or miss,
All or nothing,
1 or 0.
Though,
It cannot be that exact.
It can’t be definite.

But who am I to ask?
I know nothing.
We know nothing.
I am nothing.
We are nothing.
Or perhaps no,
Not really,
Not exactly.

A Premature Eulogy

Your death.
The struggle.
Everything.
To you it was a beautiful tragedy,
Line, song, poem-worthy.

You cling to every single thing,
Like fancy trinkets,
At the mercy of the wind,
And gravity.
And you rest your heart,
On what you know will let you down,
And you said it won’t,
But yes it did.

You’d love the sound of it,
But hate the reality of it,
A confused romaticist,
Just like what no one would care to admit,
But still, now, not quite a misfit.

I tried to save you.
But you didn’t want any saving.
Not from me, at least.
But I kept telling you.
We kept telling you.
It might never come.
And you perished waiting for it,
And our cries?
You’re impervious to them,
For you yourself knew nothing,
Understood nothing,
Didn’t have anything.

But this.
It’s something.

Final Relapse

Because now I’m just a name,
And you’re some broken link,
And the other way around.

Because I’ve set myself free,
As you’ve found your sacred place,
And chose who should be around.

Because I’m up on my feet,
And you’re in her arms,
And you don’t have to say it,
I know.

Because it still ache,
And yours does not,
And that’s the way it is.

Because it was a mistake,
Or perhaps, not,
But it’s here all the same.

Because I’ve found my peace,
And where I’ll never be back,
And finally, I can sleep tonight.

Special

“For special times only,”
Grandma said as she  closed the lid,
Locked it, and kept the keys,
In her pocket,
Safe,
Away.

“But when IS special?”
Mom said,
Tried to fish the keys,
But it was too far,
She stood there,
Disheartened.

And she just sat there,
Impervious of what’s special,
What’s kept,
And what should be out.
She looked at the drawer,
A set of pretty plates,
And saucers,
Locked up in an eternity,
Waiting,
For the special.

And so everyone looked,
And marveled,
“Ahh yes, it’s pretty–
But it’s for the special,”
And moved along with their lives.

The cracks are showing.
And so do the paints chipping.
Special never came.
Or perhaps,
It came along,
But never had the chance
To feel it,
To be with it,
Because it was in the glass case.
And the glass case,
It means it is kept,
For the special,
So like others,
Special moved along.

And so the girl.
Oblivious,
Or perhaps not,
Sat there,
Wondering.
Why.