left moon
*I think I’ve been avoiding writing
to avoid crying over your leaving.
Everything my feelings touch
seems to break along with them.
They are wings made of glass:
they flew too far,
they fell… so far away.
And even gathering the shards along the road
will hurt.
So I’ll leave my book here for now, alright?
My poems will come later —
they’ll be about you.
But our story,
at least this chapter of it,
ends here.
I can’t love you without being loved,
even if everything in me wants to,
even if everything in me is twisting,
trying to break free,
trying to run after you right now.
Breathing feels heavy now.
We can’t blame one another,
and maybe that makes everything harder to carry,
because, well…
if there’s no fault,
why did it happen?
Damn Cupid.
That miserable little brat.
Sometimes I search for answers in the divine.
It stays far too silent for my taste.
I’m a thunderous person:
I like chaos,
I hate silence.
Love is reckless, inconvenient, unsettling —
and somehow…
love is what makes us feel alive.
I never imagined that on a Thursday
everything would end.
That my limit as a person would explode.
I never really thought about it.
What day is it?
There’s nothing special about January eighth.
Well…
except that it might have been
the worst day of my life.
I wanted to understand.
Where is the poetic sense I promised you?
I tried so hard…
I knew I couldn’t do this alone.
Being human is complicated, isn’t it?
You felt me,
and every time I felt more,
I knew I was standing
at the edge of my own cliff.
I betrayed my feelings for you
and placed myself in front of them.
For the first time in a long while,
I cried out of disgust with myself.
I feel guilty.
I feel wounded.
Let’s be honest:
I feel completely broken.
I had been built for you,
piece by piece.
And now, what do I do with what’s left?
Do I start building myself for me?
I don’t know.
Don’t expect —
don’t even think —
that I’ll meet someone else anytime soon.
And when I finally allow myself to,
I’ll dream she is you.
Every day of my life.
I’ll keep looking for you
in other faces,
in another voice calling me
“my love.”
It’s okay…
I can handle the pain.
See?
I’m not even… I’m not even crying.
Maybe I’ve always been good at repressing.
But by your side —
or rather, for you —
whether you were present or not,
I chose to let it rain sometimes.
No…
it’s not okay.
My chest feels heavy.
It hurts.
I don’t know if pushing you away
was the right choice,
because I keep loving you every day,
even with you out there somewhere.
I keep thinking about every poem I wrote for you
and how fleeting they were to you.
Believe me:
you are eternal
in my heart
and in my poetry.
So setting that aside,
there’s someone else I need to apologize to…
Here it goes.
A letter to my love.
I know it hurts.
I understand your frustration.
It’s okay to cry now.
I know it feels unfair
to have given so much of yourself
and still end like this.
It’s complicated…
love goes beyond people,
it crosses through us,
it doesn’t ask permission,
it’s madness.
I can’t guarantee you
or promise
that everything will be fine.
After all, she were the part of me
that made everything pulse.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for hurting you like this.
I see you abandoned in a corner,
afraid,
not knowing what to do.
And I don’t understand either…
I wish I could sit with myself
and talk about how love hurts,
no matter how beautiful it is.
Maybe…
I’ll learn to live with this
and get better with time.
I think we should honor
those who live for love
just as much as those
who die for it.
Maybe I’ll buy flowers
and that day she’ll pass by us.
Maybe we’ll cancel our plans,
run after her,
as cliché as it sounds,
and shout everything we feel.
But until then…
allow love,
that damned thing.
Allow the pain.
I can’t love you without being loved,
but to deny love
is to deny my own existence.*
(This is by far my most personal poem but I feel a poetic touch in the part of the conversation with one's own love, well, I hope you like it.)
manic hearth
loud patrol
winged wedge
stable robin
