"ziba" poems
People die, don’t they?
Most of the time, you don’t know them—
so you don’t hear about it.
But sometimes, you know who died.
You receive a message,
you read it,
you don’t digest it.
You send some messages,
not because you want to,
but because you have to.
You make people sad,
you make them relive that moment—
not because you want to,
but because you have to.
There’s the you on autopilot,
following what must be done.
And the you in the coffee shop,
reading a book,
sipping hot chocolate,
as if no one died today.
No one you know.
Not yet.
The sweetness fades.
The weight arrives.
You wonder if you truly knew her favorite color,
Her favorite moment,
What she would have wished for
Perhaps not this.
Not like this.
Not today.
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 4:08 PM UTC