Choices

When she slept on the grass, it seemed she were a plant. And if you’d pluck one of her leaves she’d no longer be able to express her pain.

When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there’s a storm she’d breakdown in happiness.

When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she’d smile in her sleep.

When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they’d burn in her flame.

When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she’d sleep inside me.

The Week Spent Inside A Palm

“I’m back”, he said. And yet, none answered.

The darkness knocked on her cheekbones. But the door was locked. She slept stagnant on her mute heart. She recognized none anymore.

He pressed his ears on her heart for the last time and whispered, “I’m back”.

Mass

I wrote my screams on a piece of paper. Distributed evenly on either sides. One of the sides would weigh more than the other.