I have love
Love that is promised like the moon rising every night but each time a little different
I have hope
My whole life has been beautiful and even when it wasn’t I managed to be beautiful
I have health
My body works tirelessly to make sure I can dream all my dreams and write all my poems.
I have myself and the way I nourish every part of my being will be my greatest accomplishment.
Writers are just a collection of other writers
They are the product of inspiration
The proof that art transcends into each human
One by one
We are stories and poems that have lived before.
My mother tells me exactly how this day went 19 years ago
How the sun set and the moon rose
How the plane endured the winds anger
She describes the brightness of my orange jacket
She tells me of the tears that landed on my four year-old head
She tells me of the anxiety and fear that her and my father began to birth that day
She tells me that there was no return to their old life
She says despite everything we were crossing oceans and borders together and that’s all that’s ever mattered.
-The day we came to America
I tell him I’m used to the silence
The silence is what becomes of me after I’ve exhausted
all of my dignity
I tell him at one point I thought I prayed for you
I tell him at one point I did pray for you
I tell him about the day I began waking up feeling at peace
It was like the night sky was gently placing me in the new day
I tell him about the night I wrote falling in love for the second time feels like catching the sunset but this time actually timing it right
I tell him about the dreams I had
How my dreams would bring him in when I couldn’t see him
I tell him about all the poems that were still waiting for him
I tell him I wish you could stay
I tell him if the rain and sunlight have made an agreement on when they will be why couldn’t we?
Instead I tell him take care.
I told myself you will learn
That my past told stories
It was Just the source of my beginning
I told myself you will never accept love that isn’t complete
But somehow I found myself once again unable to leave a place I knew so well
The walls were freshly painted but it was still the same walls
The furniture smelled different but looked the same
the ground was still uneven and balance was impossible
He was still him
The past sometimes likes to find itself in the present.
Sometimes I sit still
In that stillness I find every piece of me and greet it
I’ve heard that’s how self love begins.
“Do you still look for him when you’re with me?”
I wonder how do I split a lie out of the truth?
How do I pretend that my eyes didn’t just whisper his name?
How do I convince my tongue to say I only want you?