Your wish to fly with the birds

Secretly, I got drunk with your poison last night.

You dragged me into your fraud, and I tasted it, crawled, screamed. But I did not run away.

Actually, we never ran away.

We were gifted with enough cunning to pretend. (The art of blending into the dark). We simply forgot how, entangled in the danger that comes with being a crowd. The scale of error is proportional to the intensity of the embrace between two strangers intertwining at first glance.

Your eyes.

You would dawn with the flight of seagulls above the chimneys, the scent of dew on bamboo, the taste of the tide’s warm laughter at our feet.

Today you vanish into the afternoon. And with you, the singularity of your eyes, leaving everything unsaid before the life unfolding in two different times, though I had always felt it there in that half-grey existence, as the hours destroyed themselves upon the bedside table.

I press my eyes to the ground where your soul spilled, begging the gods for it to turn into sea, while I witness the beginning of the reality where we ended, with cold hands anchored to the face already absent from its own body.

The flowers faint slowly, all around, in gardens of accumulated straw, long inert, in the urgency of an anonymity that arrives too late.

Too late.

This suffocation screams within me, and words are absent, those words usually honeyed, that lift your name in the spaces between the rush of days, among your sun-filled smiles. For now, I simply shatter my heart into hailstones. The moonless dawn arrives, and I see you again with such precision... I remember the love, so often blooming from your lips of an angel, forever engraved in the root of my selfish heart that never knew how to be your refuge.

Please, forgive me.

Yet, I will make you into a poem, with the weight of your footsteps echoing through this madness of mine, watered by the extraordinary shape of your eyes. With the firmness of your arms over my shoulders, hunched under the weight of memory across centuries.

I promised that I would once again hold your tender hands another day, when the tears have hardened, and the skin has healed with the passing of time. But there will be no other day, only another night, in some forsaken dream within this rural and remote universe to which, irreversibly, I brought you with me.

(You always wished to hitch a ride with the birds)

I will dream of you when, at last, I fall asleep. And that dream will be mine.

Mine alone.

Because, secretly, I got drunk with your poison last night.