Monthly Archives: July 2016

What lies beyond the horizon?

What lies beyond the horizon?
The sun is setting
and I am on the wrong shore.
In these parts
the sea isn’t even the color of translucent blue,
But why am I fantasizing about this shade and hue
when the crimson and vermilion lights of sunset
are somewhere far away?
Crimsons, vermilions and orange.
Colors I fancied as symbols of our love,
But it is sunset and I have lost track
and I am on the wrong coast.
Well, at least the moonrise is mine.
I cannot bear it, this inescapable longing to seek
what awaits me on the other end of a horizon
of time, an expanse of sea,
I am not afraid that I won’t swim
I am terrified by this inexorable need
to sleepwalk through it.
Bright lights, bulrush baskets
Your sunsets were full of exploding melancholies
while mine are as colorless and neverending as they come
time passes but I lay the hourglass on its sides
and nothing goes nowhere
The sands of time are smoothly stuck in eternity
perhaps one day I’d leave the hourglass on a beach
bury time in the sand
poetic justice I’d call it
and the sands of time will wait until the waves take
them away to what lays beyond.
I wonder whether the plaintive metaphor of the hourglass
will come back someday from its journey
to tap me on the shoulder and tell me
that the horizon contains nothing and everything is here
I’d have worn my sandals, kept my notebook inside,
picked up the bag and my pieces and moved away by then
my footprints extinct on the beach.
I’d have walked away
in search of more moonrises.

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Twelfth.

When I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of you,
I freeze. All of me freezes inside.

I was a breeze. In a terrible storm brewing in your heart.
I wonder how much it has taken away and apart.
And how much have I.
I foolishly think to myself that there is something
greater than us at play here,
something that none of us can too well comprehend.
There isn’t.
I have knocked at the door of your eardrums
to seek shelter from the icy winds of forlornity.
If you ever opened the doors, you would perhaps
see my teeth still clattering.
But what I’m afraid of is the hurricane inside
of shattered mirrors and torn out pages
and flying pieces of memorabilia.
But I wake up in the middle of the night
thinking of  this.
And I freeze. All of this freezes for an instant.
And I can’t go back to sleep.
Dreading the gunfire.

I’m a breeze. I’m a terrible storm.
I’m laughter. I’m the gunshot.