Sofia Paderes

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

It doesn't help to
think about things that have
journeyed down the long road of
never-coming-back-again.
No, it doesn't, but

it hurts to remember.
it hurts to forget.

sitting outside your room
on the floor
my insides twisting
my stomach lurching
your quick breathing

it hurts to remember.
it hurts to forget.

white walls
white halls
white face from all the
needles and tubes
trying to inject themselves in your system
they were supposed to make you feel better but
instead, you became their victim.

it hurts to remember.
it hurts to forget.

the last promises
the last kisses
the last touches
the last breaths

it hurts to remember.
it hurts to forget.

I am restless from
all this trying
to figure out which is best because

it hurts to remember,
but it also hurts to forget.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

Advice from a friend

Don't
fall in love with her.
For you will both crash
and I promise, you will burn, for

She is the girl with too many wounds
the ones even an ocean of your love can't heal.
She is the girl with scars on her knees
because she tried taking leaps of faith far too many times,
waiting for someone to catch her
but they never did.

She is the girl who will never be with you
even if she is holding your hand
and your fingers are wrapped around her shoulders
and her neck is resting on your chest for
she will always be atop an asteroid
trying to catch moon-tears
because she knows that the moon weeps for her.

She is the girl who won't tell you she loves you
even if you tell her a hundred times and look at her
with all the longing you can muster
because she knows how words can be.
Some words
are only said to fill in the empty silence.

She is the girl who is hard to dance with
because she refuses to be led across the dance floor
she's already been led,
many, many times
and she always ended up
with floor burns, scrapes and sprains.

She is the girl with pimples
not enough to cover her face
but enough to let you know how far into the night she stays awake
writing poetry about 'you'
she's written so many poems about 'you'
because her hands won't stop moving
her mind won't stop weaving and I promise,
you wouldn't want her to write about you.

She is the girl with broken, dead bones
the girl who's seen too many deserts
climbed too many mountains
but she never reached the top or
came to the end of the endless stretch of yellow, but
she can tell you a lot about oases.

So before you even think
of falling in love with her, I warn you,
don't.
Do whatever else you want just
don't
fall in love

with me.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

This one's for you

Our hearts must have been knitted together in the womb
and ripped apart at birth, but
whoever did so failed to remove every piece of yarn
because we ended up finding each other again.

You are the only one who can see past me
and I am the only one who can tell
if you're having a normal silence
or a sad silence.
Oh, I can tell.

We can read each other's souls
as easily as my father reads the Sunday morning newspaper
and we can read the pain between the lines, too
in fact, we trace it with our fingers
and feel the pain like it's our own.
Oh, we do.

We are opposite in physique and personality
but twins in values and passions, this
you wrote to me in a letter once,
and I haven't forgotten it.
Oh, I haven't.

We've wondered why we're so alike in a
completely opposite way, but now I know.
I know that the yarn is still hanging
and we are still being stitched back together
because one day, we'll end up right back from where we came from.
And we'll be doing the exact same thing.
Oh, we will.

A poem for my best friend. You know who you are.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

My fingers are of butter

See, I once read somewhere that
every moment is a poem --
if you just hold it right. So
I'm trying to hold this moment right, but
there's really no formula to this,
is there?
A poet can hold these moments right,
right?
No.
A poet can't hold a moment.
He can only pass his butterfingers through it
and watch the moment fade into the past.
He tries to make it last
but nothing lasts forever, so
he makes up the rest by drawing out words from his soul
because his soul has better memory
better holding than he does,
and he knows it.
So, you see,
a poem is not a moment that was held right.
A moment,
a moment in itself
is a poem.
A poem that was seen right.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

red ink

You write poems of
love in the morning and
the soft fall of rain but
I can read.
I can read what you've erased
the lines you don't want us to see
I take note of these and
put your invisible words together
and read your true words.
And I see that
you write with red ink.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

Only Sometimes

I miss you.
But only sometimes.
I miss you when I float downstairs and glance
at your grandmother's
grandfather clock.
I miss you when the breeze comes in.
I miss you when the sun grins
and when it doesn't.
I miss you when the heavens drip.
I miss you when my eyes are open,
I miss you when I'm dreaming,
because I tend to dream about you.
I miss you when I'm busy.
I miss you when I'm alone with the things I say to myself.
And I say to myself,
I miss you.
But only sometimes.

I don't like having nothing to do because then I'll have time to remember you.

Sofia Paderes Sep 2013

A Letter to my Grandchildren

The moment you were brought out from the hospital room
and I saw your soul open its eyes for the first time and
the drums of your heart start its beat
all my troubles, all my cares, all my worries fell apart
and at that moment I decided
that I would teach you to live.

You were born in the age
where to write is vintage
to think is ancient
and to love is prehistoric
but I will rewrite history for you
and make sure that you live in the past
before buildings that block out the sky
before someone decided to take time’s hands and spin them ‘til they whipped like a tornado
before people had to start paying for oxygen
because the air had become too polluted with chemicals and greed and so-called innovation but in reality every nation was just trying to be one cent richer than the other.

You were born in the age where
books are only found in museums
and flowers are only found pressed in between those books
but I will make sure you grow up with a garden of words and wildflowers
I will teach you to treasure every letter, every seed, every fern
because there's no better remedy to anything
than a good old paperback and a fistful of freshly picked lavenders.

I will teach you to walk
in a world that tells you to run, to glide, to ride
the latest, the fastest,
I will teach you to walk
not to be late for school, but to be early enough
to see the city opening its eyes
to see the machines hum to life
because there’s nothing more beautiful than beginnings
and to see the morning sun push and pull
push and pull
push and pull you away from the strobe lights
away from the stench of loneliness and lost time
I will teach you to walk so that you will be forced
to slow down, breathe, and think
because it seems to me that your generation hasn’t heard of that word before.

You were born in the age
where people look at themselves as gods
but I will teach you to see beauty
without mirrors and empty words
I will teach you the wonders of the heart
I want you to know how it feels like to watch something grow
I want you to know the joy of licking a homemade ice cream cone
but I also want you to know failure
to know how it feels like to struggle and strive
to know the pain of losing someone
because no matter what those empty advertisements and
neon screens tell you
life isn’t a dream, and the pain
shakes you and
aches you and
breaks you
reminding you that
you are alive and there is still so much to learn and
there are a million other things I want you to learn
but most importantly
and I swear to you
I’m not leaving this earth
until you learn how to live.