“I want to be reborn,” she said decisively.
So she plucked the moon and marinated it in poison;
she ground oleander and water hemlock,
and drank the decoction from her porcelain tea cup.
She gathered the stars—near and far, and far and near—
into her bosom, burning her skin
until she was stripped to the bone.
Then she swallowed the sun
and let it burn her further,
until all her wishes, her desires, her hatred,
and her attachments that had been deeply engraved in her bones
became nothing but whispers and ash,
carried by the wind
and scattered into nothingness…
“I want to be born again…”
Then she woke, and became a butterfly.
She was the moon, mysterious and ethereal;
He was the sun, bright and magnificent.
The day she was born
Was the day he died;
Was the day of her departure.
They were each other’s destiny,
Yet they were never destined to meet;
They were each other’s fated pair.
And both unaware, followed different orbits.
Though fated, they chased and ran,
And followed others
Without pausing to realize the restlessness in their hearts.
They were always a distance away, sometimes a breath,
But their paths would never cross
-Maybe not in this lifetime,
But perhaps in the next…
Hopefully, in the next.
A mist covered dawn
embraced by a peaceful quiet;
a lone boat without paddles,
motionless in the middle of a calm lake;
a fallen leaf, resting gently
with not a ripple on the surface.
They linger like ghosts
in dark corners,
behind the potted birds of paradise
decorating the corner of your study;
and even when the living room
is brightly lit by the sunlight
coming in through the picture window,
they sit silently on that worn lawson sofa –
gaunt, with blank eyes
that stare at the black and white abstract
you hung above the fireplace.
They keep you company in your empty kitchen
as you eat alone on your four-person dining table.
You see them standing in the corner
by the towel rack
when you look at yourself in the mirror after your bath.
And they blend in with the cold in your bedroom,
as you close your eyes tight
and bury yourself deeper
under the covers, hoping
they don’t visit you in your dreams.
A pivotal moment
that hits you full throttle without warning;
like an unwelcomed guest
that rings your doorbell in the middle of the night,
and plunges you in the profundity of
an uncomfortable reality,
pushing you to claw your way up
from the bottomless pit you have dug for yourself.
It begins with an itching
that one cannot relieve by scratching
the outer layer of the skin;
it crawls, and spreads silently
from the mind to the smallest crevice of the heart
and hitches a ride with your blood cells
along with oxygen,
incorporating itself into the metabolic process.
Sometimes, it becomes a permanent resident
and gnaws at the last threads of hope
stitching you together.
An aimless wandering of the mind,
touching momentarily on thoughts
without the intent of exploring them to the full extent;
from one emotion to the next in a split second
without naming or identifying what it is.
A towering snow-capped mountain –
its peak hidden behind the clouds;
A vast ocean of unfathomable depth –
rendering anyone who attempts to reach the bottom
thoroughly lost in their expedition.
An abyss if you are blinded by it.
Two guys walk into a bar and order drinks.
One orders a whiskey sour,
the other an old fashioned.
There was instant chemistry,
and the cozy ambiance had them drinking
to Troye Sivan’s Seventeen –
sipping and swallowing the melody,
breathing in the rhythm,
and ingesting the alluring scent of whiskey
mixed in the atmosphere of quiet conversations.
The lyrics, reminiscent of their wild youth
that has mellowed with age and
the clinking sound
of ice melting in the glass.
The melody, entangled gracefully
with the meandering cigarette smoke
as it wafted from intimate corners.
They found themselves drunk
on whiskey and love.
You’ve been holding the heavens on your shoulder for so long,
enduring for an eternity without respite.
If you shrug, then the heavens would fall,
and the earth would shake.
Olympus would be thrown into chaos.
Perhaps they’d think you’re inciting another rebellion
– another Titanomachy.
But the truth is, you’ve been thinking of your fellow titans,
your brothers and sisters in arms.
Wondering who has it worse –
your eternity or their suppression in Tartarus?
Guilt prevents you from shrugging.
So you continue to bear the weight of the heavens,
atoning for the tragic beauty of your rebellion.