I.
When I was born,
I was dead
In her womb I was bloodless.
It was Saturday,
and the moon is full.

II.
Summer nights
became a desert
the child in me
was a gatekeeper.
All that was left,
'til now I was dead.

III.
I grew apart
and my heart has swollen
'tis now I found I was fallen
oh, my heart bleeds for me
when will I not be forsaken?

IV.
Hymn.
It was tingling
the music of a bell
is my time here short?
The child in me grew apart.
All that was left,
gone by a swift of a wind.

V.
Tomorrow might be
the last breath I breathe
'til now I was dead
in the hearse I am alive.

By the striking of the moon, gone of me was the child in her womb.

My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.

From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.

I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.

The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”

And I woke up.
It was September.

The whistle of the winds
and the scattered leaves gathering
into the air breeze of November
while the music of the cricket's song
lull her away into sleep.

For tomorrow's morning, uncertain.
Her soft silky hair danced on the waves
of the trees;
and its leaves singing with the wood nymphs —
the road is busy with the cars passing
and the pavement's slipping.

“The future is ours.”
She said —
with her chest heaved.
The small droplets of the rain
felt by her skin
as she closed her eyes,
the meaning of her vision
stuck through her.

While tomorrow's may be uncertain —
but the future is hers alone.
Roaring thunders woke her
into a moment of bliss.
The once starless sky
is now filled with the trinkets
of destiny's creation —
maybe in this night alone,
her wishes came true.

That the future is hers alone.

If vivid dreams can flee away
in a moment of time,
if the future is unknown
in the dreamer's heart,
and if an untitled song
gets finished —
that must be the calling
of the void's voice.

If a song turns into poetry
if an art turns into a priceless liberty
and if the voice of the void —
finds a dreamer's dream
slipping away,
then mornings
can break away.

If falling means
getting up —
if drowning means
dying —
and if dreaming
means hoping —
then an untitled song
will soon have its name.

“You know why am I always scared? It's because when you feel happy at the exact moment, that is when empty endings occur.” He breathlessly spoke in the air.

Endings, happiness, and emptiness. Those three words I hated. It haunted me. I was gazing upon it, and the next words written on the wall was, "I must survive it." It was a familiar one. I traced every letter written on it, and it was like remembering how he wrote it, and how he fell upon it.

He could've survived it.
If it wasn't for me.

Scattered petals were surrounding me. The wheezing winds from the windowsills embracing my already gnawing body—my eyes wandered the old house. My eyes fixated, on the dried drops of blood, on the empty sofa he always sits in. Where we always tell each other's carpe diem.

If I didn't leave, will I make a difference?
If I didn't let the monsters win, will I be able to stay?

“Do you want to know the answer?” An old lady patted me on the back.
It sent chills down my spine. Her voice sounded as cold and barren.

“Who are you?” My voice began to shake. I took two steps backward, but she keeps drawing nigh. Who is she?

“Do you want to know the answer? She repeated. How did she found out?
“I don't know what you are talking about!” Then, I ran in the other direction.

I woke up and it was on the 5th of May when mornings are cold and grey. I flinched when I saw his back, asleep. “I was just dreaming,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just when I was about to open it, he groaned and stood.

“J-Jack?” I called him. My raspy voice echoed throughout the room, but he didn't even budge and walked out of the room. I followed him and my hands reached him, yet it passed through him. Just what in the world is happening?

I tried several times to touch him and even cupped his face, but I was a ghost passing through his body, and the sudden thought flashed through my mind that I remembered the old lady.
“What did you do?!” I called her, but no one is answering. What am I suppose to do?

The rush of waters coming from the faucet overwhelmed my ears and I saw him lying in the bathtub—his eyes were bloodshot red and his wrist was full of scars; his body weight fell and his face's swollen.

I sat beside him and rummaged his hair, even though I could not hold him, yet my coldness reached through him that he flinched and met my eyes.

“Shh... I am here, I am here.” I whispered. He closed his eyes and dipped his face in the bathtub. Adrenaline rushed through me, and my screams were almost a whisper. I threw out the chair, and that caught his attention.

I ran and found a marker lying in the table. I went back and wrote “Helen is here” on the wall. I peered at his direction and saw his stunned expression.

“He-Helen?” His hoarse voice sent chills down my spine. I wrote “Yes” on the wall and sat beside him.  “Don't do it again, Jack” I wrote again.

Then, I woke up.

The first thing I saw was the old lady sitting at the edge of my bed. She was intently staring that it pierced through my core. Then, her expression changed—it was now a soft one, and she flashed a genuine smile.

“You did great, Helen. You must find the answer, yourself.” She said and vanished.

I looked up and it was on the 5th of May again. And Jack was walking up to the door—I followed him until he passed by the Bridge of Adelaine. If I stop Jack when he was drowning himself, then I must find a way to stop his death.

The old lady may be giving me chances to change the course of Jack's past. To save him from dying on the 5th of May.
But the problem was, there were no walls or things I can use to stop him. How will I save Jack?

“His mind...” The old lady's voice echoed through my mind.

His mind... What about that? I asked her again, but she didn't answer.

Yes, his mind! Panic registered through me when he already was standing on the other side of the bridge and I closed my eyes and found his still mind—yet so dangerous.

“Jack, stop it!” I screamed. But he wasn't listening.
“I said stop it!” I repeated but he wasn't listening.
Then I remembered something—something in the past we both held on to whenever we have bad days.

“You know why am I always scared? It is because when you feel happy at the exact moment, that is when empty endings occur.” I spoke, my voice cracking.

His face flashed a hint of surprise and looked around. Then he saw me, he saw through me.

“Helen?”

It was on the 5th of May again. I immediately roamed around and saw myself passing through the walls of this empty hospital. I found myself looking for his room, and I opened the door.
He was lying there with IV fluids inserted into one of his veins.

“Helen...” He called out.

“I'm here,” I whispered, and cupped his face. He smiled and looked at me.

“You can see me?” I added.

“Yes,” He replied.

“You know, I will always be your hero. Remember that. I will always save you, Jack.” Then I kissed his forehead.

“This is why I don't want to be happy, I know you will leave me again, Helen.” He spoke in silence.

“Then I will always come out of the grave, to save you then.” I grinned, and we both laughed.

I.

She was there
wearing her favorite sweater
while she was hoping
to get her life —
beaten like a raw egg
then I made this song,
about Helena.

II.

“So long and goodnight,
So long and goodnight.”
I hummed,
gently touching her cold face
when the chrysanthemums
she holds
brought me back to her
and the rain pours.
Her unkempt hair —
her cold swollen hands
her eyes as dead
as the digging hearse
rushes
unto her,
I made this song.

III.

“When the star falls,
I'll be holding on tonight
if I stay, would it make a difference?
Well, carry on don't sleep
hear me and stay.”
I strum in the strings of
yarns weaving
the ropes of life
attached — while she dances
barefoot and reckless.
'Til I come running
and her faint breath, gone.

IV.

This is the last verse of the song.
When slowly the sun
yet to rise again,
piercing through
her damp soul,
I sang the last piece
and wore a vintage smile,
after her last fainting breath —
she heard the song.
Helena sold the pieces of her soul.

My eyes were traipsing all across the room, my irked nose was lined with all its corroded details and the charred, foul smell of blood. Where my hands are firmly cradled and the sky is peeking through the cracked window. Am I hopeless?

"Just call my name on the edge of the night," My ears wobbled to the melancholy raspy voice of a man telling me before he faded away. I remember him grinning and caressing the tip of my nose, yet I couldn't open my pursed lips. "Call me and I'll run to you," His voice erupted throughout the house. It was like his plump lips were meeting my ears' tips."I really can't!" I whispered. You are too far, Sky.

I let my eyes wander through their blurry sight through the starless horizon from which the eclipse was striding into the darkness. The moon is serenading the hurricane, and the gusts of wind whistle and spin, blowing chill bumps through my bones.

Rapidly, a familiar sensation surged through my body—my eyes fixed on a spot where I was in the center of the forest, where the flowers were blooming as I sauntered by. I traced my fingertips and remembered that he pulled the flower and ended up dead on his bare fingers.

"You know that whatever you touch, it dies?" A faint chuckle I let out. He gazes his eyes into mine, penetrating through my soul, allowing me to drown in his mirror-less eyes. giving me a new illusion of myself, securing me in a sacred paradise. The thunder roared like a thirsty lion. He held my hand, and slowly, he vanished and burned into grey ashes.

Where the sky contains a fraction of truth and the heavens have got a hold of time, where the underworld brings chaos and chaos grants powers to mortals. Where he is Sky, eventually named after Death. Where he is mine and there in him lies the future. Where neither gods nor goddesses can intervene. where I could no longer call him "Sky." Only his lingering parts could I hang on to. I closed my eyes and waited for the downpours of the rain. When there is chaos, there is still time. When questions remain unanswered, there is the sky, awaiting your call. When there is existence, there's him, Death. We flew in the sky and he dropped into the lake of lies, and that's when I knew the truth: the gift of chaos is the heavenly realms. And so is the past. And then, there, I locked my eyes with him and, like a phoenix, my soul was greedy for freedom and him, the death of the mirror-less sky.

The present.

The future.

The memories.

The loss.