Do you remember
that first poetry book?
Poemas de Otoño
     de
           Rubén
  Darío.

Do you remember when
you borrowed it?

“It was the first book
she ever read
         out
     of
            pleasure”

Your mother said.

It was the last one too,
wasn’t it?

Because you are gone now.
Gone forever.
Gone with no coming back,
gone with no reply,
with no promise of an
“I’ll meet you again”

Nothing.

You are no longer there to console me.
There is nothing to cling into.
No hope.

No hope except for a shallow dream,
the empty promise of the afterworld,
the holy gates.

I’d be religious
just for you.

But my brain was never made for blind belief.

So I’ll pull deidities aside
and grasp into poetry,
in a hope that
if heaven can’t be real
at least I’ll bring my demons
into earth.
Into paper.

Into
ink.

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day,
i wonder -
how i’d feel about it the next day;
to not have a memory i can name;
to come out the other side,
to realize -
the story’s still the same.

what would i even call such a day?
i guess - it’d still be a regular day...
for others to see me -
like, they’ve always seen me
under the sun.
just for a day,
put my soul out of the equation.    

i wonder where i’d even start,
with my mind, and my tongue -
both poles apart.
no self-esteem to feed,
nor the regrets -
to fight about.
****!
what would i even write about...?

You asked for this door.
One foot through the
Other trembling in the stars.

You can[not] have balance without halfway seeking defeat.

Stone's on the water now.

Float or sink.