The echo of grief.
That overbearing surname,
grief is the
nameless exit
of tears.
Grief is the gospel
song my mother
would always
listen in church.
Your room
that we would
make as a museum
for memories that
need room
to fully bloom.
The echo of
grief is just a
compression
of sound
waves of
weeping
and crying.
This
is the reason
why our
larynx
are made
to have
salutary
rarefactions,
to breath freely.
Imagine those liquid, soluble thoughts
being poured down in your
crescent-shaped brain.
Let osmosis do its thing.
Imagine that tingling, yet sufferable
sensation tickling
your shapeable
spine.
Your full name written on my neck,
and your birthdate stamped
on my left collarbone.
The burnt out fire that
still lingers
in the same
palms.
We would do the same
thing to
each other.
Sold love for cracks,
i mean i was a
naive kid,
ok?
That isolated detail
of your pupil
holds so
much tears,
the ones
that speak
trauma, and
your daunting
loveliness.
Your prehistoric lips,
filled with
clairvoyant
statements, just
you trying to
give us a
hint.
Your verbose
heart,
calling me
in heartbeats,
yet i ignored it.
I know you want to
fix yourself,
make your nights
emotionless,
clean,
But by clean,
you don't expect it to
be perfect in shape and looks
itself, there's always
that cuddly ash
stuck on the
carpets,
by thread you
pull it out,
By clean,
you don't
expect the
new house
to be
durable
when you used
the same broken
bricks, just cleaned
out.
By life,
you don't expect
it to be clean,
there's still bumps,
and dirt everywhere.
Silly you,
i felt like
some
sort of
imitation of
endless affirmations
after saying
'it's fine'
that one
tooth is
gone
in
your mouth,
then you went
toothless.
However,
the word
'goodbye' is still
alive in your
mouth.
You crave
for my
compliments
in a way
that you can
now love
yourself.
I'm not
saying there's
no pot luck
roaming
around
in that land of
yours.
Because your
valuable
existence will
always be
remembered.
©sars.
J