It was exactly on a day like this when you came down from the sky. The clouds were grey, with a hint of orange, and some streaks of blue. There were pocket storms all over you, there were small circles for thunder, lightning, torrid rains, and raging winds. Your body is littered with leaves, broken branches of unknown trees. On your feet is a swollen river. Your knees assumed landslides, between your legs a typhoon slowly gathers strength, and gave havoc immediately above your hips. Strangely you hand summoned a different season, winter in an unprecedented coldness.
I’m trying to re-imagine you. Your hair brown as a river, with curls like open-sea-waves has metallic yellow ribbon, with a real yellow butterfly roosting on it, desperately seeking succulence. Your hair like rain, fell down until a few inches below your shoulder. The bag you carry on your back carried your burden in return. You told me the half-moon under your eyes were not borne from lunacy, sleeplessness has its own way of claiming your body, that’s why that moon, you say, is in constant eclipse.
I looked down on your palm, it looked like it has been ravaged by wars, the lines were scarred, it has wounds, it doesn’t close easily, and is wet with tears. Your palm looked like a different continent altogether, forced to surrender, a broken republic.
I heard your heart caved-in.
You went to the bathroom, and cleaned the floor like you always do, i’m sure you were smirking in front of the mirror after seeing those little green molds silently starting a colony.
I’ve been away for 7 years. In those years i am always in some places that most of the times i didn’t bother to share. I almost died in one of the hospitals in an island across where you’ve been, those were psychedelic days, in high experiment, as if my budget is limitless as the string that held the kite back from reaching the blue above.
I’ve been communing with the sea, but never told you of the secrets i gathered from hermit crabs, from fireflies inhabiting mangrove nations. The wind has its own evening secrets, when the waters glow, the air around assembles to impregnate the churning below.
I never told you what happened when i went up there where guns grew wings. Time moved around in slow-motion, in mud-pace. I spoke of the trees, one night my voice rustled like thousand leaves, and trembled as if i’m a coconut tree about to give-up the bulging greens and oranges up my bosom. Sometimes i croaked like the frog under the rain, demanding reforms for the land that i’ve been skipping. Above, in that place, the earth becomes liquid under my feet.
I ate lamb stew i found under the stairs of your dreams.
Did i tell about my moving closer to piers of different countries? How i just shook my hand like a preacher, and moved my eyes to wink, to get my fair share of love near train stations, airports, and movie houses?
I didn’t get the chance to tell all of these, because i can’t be still. The familiar became unfamiliar.
I saw you again surrounded by loss, tubes going in and out of your mouth, machines musically disturbing beside you, and i touch your hands, your feet, your shoulder, and your forehead. You never opened your eyes again, nor your mouth, and something in me choked.
Then the coldness came.
Then i silently recalled our stories together as if they are photographs, slowly flipping through pages, from black and white to colors.
Pa, i spoke to you.
My breathing clots on my chest.
The secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.
Listen to me.
Who have been walking with their shoes, bloodied and soiled by the faith of redemption. Who plunged themselves to the labels of excesses, and cry in silent for the hunger you felt is more than what is being sold in street corners.
Didn’t you lament on romances that got wasted by love in the vegetable kingdoms, where rats infests to feed their young somewhere hidden in the stench of the sewers.
Didn’t you talked about silence, and threw every single watches you own to the roof of houses you passed by every night you got yourself in one of those situations, that getting drunk is not just because of alcohol but by the smell of bodies charging against each other? swear that you will submit to the eternity of time. Aren’t you noisy with this kind of silence? and your songs are gibberish.
Aren’t your knees became callous because you kneel in every chance there’s a cathedral in your mind and in every body else’s mind, and then you get shoved from behind, because all of these are prescribed by the preachers in glossy suits, and gel elated hairs.
I am with you if you’ll jump up from the 10th floor of your dreaming and fall splendidly voiceless.
I am with you when you murder the language that will creep from the shadows of your wants.
I am with you when you berate the tv for misleading us with cartoon shows and write speeches to flood newsrooms of naked skeletons.
I will be with you when we will shove down our poetics to the throats and asses of those who have been wielding their names as if they own every mad house of the cities that we’ve been to.
This is where i will settle, in my dreams where i saw you with skinny legions, with eyes stretched back as far as china, and breathe-in, deep like it’s an unending well, without the bonanzas of wealth.
We will settle here, and we will kiss until we are drown in our own embrace, under the Technicolor evening, we will walk around and name every nameless, we will knock on their doors and sleep on their beds.
Soon we will fade in discontent.