scared i. leave leave leaves burn holes in my crippled heart
please stop the fall, please stop the fall, please stop me from
falling every time i think of how you will come back and then leave
i fear seeing your face again so close to mine again, so close yet so far
so close yet so closed, how, why, when, and how much longer
how much longer will you stay open, stay with me, stay with me
please, stay, i hear her talk of disappointments and failures and cockily
my crippled heart thinks “i remember when i searched so frantically for
disappointments and failures in you, in us, and
did not find any, only found many in me”. i thought, how is that even possible?
that you made me laugh so much, no one else did this before, and you kept
making me laugh, we kept making us laugh, for 700 days and onward.
that is a lot more than 500 days of summer, and all of it was spring,
completely spring, no fall, no winter, only you and me, but
how is that even possible? how are we still so open?
scared ii. the only people i opened up to have changed,
and change means pieces of them evaporate into old melded memories
made to fit the nostalgic cracks in our brains,
my brains, because when you evaporate, you leave,
left behind, hold on with sweaty palms to the water droplets your river leaves behind,
so my mind like a broken record player screeches
are you mine, when will you be mine,
and i remember you, you who used to be mine, but i guess
family is more temporary than love, despite the, or more like, because of the, real permanency of it. but it still hurts, i still miss you and it leaks sometimes when i
accidentally, absent-mindedly pick at the wounds this left in me, pick at the holes
in the dam in me that keeps my flooding eyes in check.
i know we all know picking only leads to more scabbing
and the wounds they will never heal this way, but it gets itchy,
my eyes get itchy with how much they miss the special days, the ballerina benches,
the carpe diem dances, the me and you in a cocoon, those cocoons.
and scared iii. you and me in this cocoon; when do we, will we turn into butterflies?
when will it be real, on paper, will it be real on paper? will they lead you away from me,
will they take you away, will you take you away, or
am i really this lucky yet unlucky because
scared, maybe i will keep frantically counting the days even when we are together for
something like 18,250 of them, and you will laugh, we will still be laughing,
and you will pet my head and call me crazy, and i will pick at my scab,
and wish you all are near, and
i’m sorry, i have developed this allergy to leaves, said the scared i.
we used to be embarrassed of admitting our love for love, so we
jokingly labelled it something that bored us to death.
and you’re scared of happiness dying once labelled, so where
i dream and see romance, you dream and fear horror. but love,
love is love and horror all mixed up together and everyday i wake up
with my heart gripped in the firm grasp of your warm hands, both
(a) fearing that we may one day cling too tight and suffocate like maybe you’ll
squeeze my heart dry and i’ll bloody your pure hands, and (b) also dreaming
that our grips may never loosen and we love so hard our faces turn purple