under the unseen
wastes floating
alongside the clouds,
i’ve peered
at the blurring memories
of times bygone

the waves
that used to waltz gracefully
are now as loose
as the sands in the shore
where they used to land.
when they ebb
into their horizons
once a month,
the daisies planted
on the ocean floor are revealed:
wilting, patiently,
beside the rusting metals
of sunken ships and people

those who reign over
the cities are still
trading air and tanks
with gold;
the cosmonauts that remained
are left with no choice
but to dig
and try to survive  

they say small towns
are now vanquished,
but when you look
intently beyond
the forlorn and barbed wires,
traces of life can be seen —
on half-bare trees and
on blood-painted gutters.

in where we reside,
footsteps and words
are almost nowhere
to be heard.
we walk lightly as how
we breathe quietly.
if you get to visit our place,
squint your eyes
and gaze beyond
our tinted masks —
i pray
that you’ll somehow see
how we’re still
what we used to be:

living creatures,
only trapped
in strange times.

carve your words on winds
and let the fleeting air
caress the wounds
you courageously cut open;
let them bleed again
and let the fresh scent
send the birds to singing;
forget about the inked papers —
no one reads anymore
and the world forgets anyway

and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to ****. you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know.

— to my younger self

and my fingers will trace these scars on your chest — they're no fault lines but darling, i can fall and fall and fold myself into wildflowers on which sunlight unfurls. but this world, it's a battlefield and red roses bloom not from the soil but from the skin and every death feels like the first.

every kiss feels like the last.

and darling, tomorrow, we have all the time to be broken. we have all the time to grow up. but tonight, let me hold you close; my hands are weary of writing elegies. tonight, let me drown in your seastorm eyes; i am tired of looking for temporary ports and for all the wrong shades of blue. tonight, i will read you poems about a girl named helen, who loved despite the war. tonight, the world can crumble down and i can stay right here, safe and sound in the comfort of your sighs, like a girl resting against bruised lilacs. i can stay right here watching you sleep until the earliest hours, forever asking myself how can someone so ******, so broken by this world possess this much softness.

this much gentleness.

this much peace.

regardless, rest your weary bones, my love. morning still is far away.