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Momo Watanabe Jun 2014
For every broken piece she’s got, she makes a paper crane to remind herself that bruises heal. And every day she makes 3 paper cranes, after making each one she shrugs her shoulder and smiles.
“Well that’s life” she says and falls asleep in her mediocre bed and her pillows tasting salty from her tears during her nightmares.
One morning she got up and realizes she has plenty of paper cranes living in her bedroom floor, in her sunflower kitchen, in her garden, in her beloved tub. There were so many that she couldn't count them off.
Then she placed her palms on her chest and realized she no longer has anything beating and then the world was never the same again.

How many pieces must have fallen from her heart?
How many left?

All those paper cranes were static but she needed answers. A lot of answers. She needed to hear why those pieces were torn and why she was severely suffering.

But no one came and whispered soothing things on her ears. The night fell and the moon was big and bright and cried because that was the only thing she could do. Her hands can barely make another paper crane to remind her that it was life.

The moon was wide and big and quiet but she felt that the silence was all she need and the moon became her refuge.

There was no one to save her but at least, something to turn to when loss is becoming unbearable.
Momo Watanabe Jun 2014
The moon hangs up high
And the stars fill the black sky
I heard the wolf cry
Momo Watanabe Jun 2014
Instead of investing your time reading thick calculus books why open the stitches of my skin and smell the bare flesh and blood that existed primarily because it was lonely. Instead of studying a cell wall under the microscope, you should have tried to locate where I was behind the walls that I carelessly built. Instead of fixing someone’s car, come home fast and see why I broke down and be acquainted with the beating my heart, at least listen to it once in awhile like an old radio playing on repeat, your voice is the only track in my tape and your existence is the miracle of a thousand years.
Yes, this is the extremes. Welcome to my love.
Momo Watanabe Jun 2014
You grabbed my skin and I gracefully slid an inch closer.
Moisture is concentrating underneath my chin, a conclusion
Smokes its way up to my brain that
Beside you was summer in the midst
Of a rain in spring, on wet pavements
And dark skies. One, two, three and your
Eyes open like the gates of heaven,
Sunshine accompanied by angel
Strummed harps and blown trumpets in the background
And I see an ocean glassed inside the black hole in your eyes.
It was a constellation yesterday and today, it was calm blue
But, nevertheless, they were beautiful like midnight memories
Painted in fogged-up glass
“Hello Dear”, I said and your brows
Drew into a Greek question mark.
Like a metal chain, I pulled you closer
And sang the lullaby written crookedly
In my grandmother’s grave. The world may forget
But you have my heart. I can’t sing but there’s a jazz
Of sadness at the beat of my heart.
The clock ticks, like a beating drum to an execution
And holding you a little tighter will let me fall into
A deeper cliff, unconsciously planted in between my ribcage
How awful is it to want someone like you;
An awfully overwhelming privilege to walk inside you like
A stranger and leave you like a hero
Who flies back to his moon when your eyes close.
I closed my eyes and felt your heartbeat and no,
No I won’ forget; leave all the remembering to me.
Just wake up tomorrow and set your heart to the stranger
Who holds you tightly when you wake, because you are more
Than a storm and more than a ghost and you will be
Horrified because you don’t know—
Wake up and dwell in between the arms when you try to run
And escape from oblivion.
Wake up to the world in the past with a traveler
From the future and I would tell you that I have loved you
More than twice, more than thrice a lifetime from now.
Drain all your tears when you find out that in your sleep,
you left a yesterday and flew into the year after.
You will see a different shade of spring and see the
Water more vaguely and the rocks
Are not the same any longer.
You will ask me what day today is
And I would tell you that Gandhi died.
And I would tell you the tales of the lost Atlantis
And the life on mars. Walk you in the boulevard
Beside the pacific. A thousand days like this may
Go on forever and I won’t still mind. In the mornings that
You wake when I get fear for consolation and
A bundle of questions floods through your screams
And helpless protests. I’m privilege to wake up
And close my eyes next to you. To tell you
The tales of peter pan and Charlie’s giant peach.
We would eat your favorite pie on a daily
Basis like the tides in the seas, as often as breathing,
as long as your smile sits up constantly
On your face. I have today, you have yesterday
And tomorrow leaves us hopeful.
I’d send you the letters and you would
Never forget to curtsy around when I
Tell you that you are as graceful as
A Victorian royalty. I like your teeth,
I like your feet and I would love to
Tell you that every day and I love
How you shy away. I’d paint you
A million times and remind you
That yes, today is something new
Behind the faded walls and the clock
That stopped ticking years ago, beneath
The page in the calendar that
Got stuck like an anchor.
These things are worth a lifetime.
We live in the walls where forever
Is compressed in a day and
With the truth that when you wake
The morning after, this fallacy of forever
Starts all over again, like a vicious cycle
Of rain and clouds and tear drops.
And I don’t mind to say hello,
To me, all these routines are old as time itself
But to you, was always been the new adventure
You always wanted to take on.
And I’m glad that I’ll always be the one
Beside you as you take on the adventure
Wearing your favorite red scarf and your flawed memory.

— The End —