Midnight eventually spilled its secrets For it could read the kindness in moonlight Of gently illuminating them with acceptance alone. The nightingale's song took a wide flight, For it had become too tired of losing its existence In the chaos that forever thundered with disapproval. The heart undertstood it can't be left forsaken By itself, for too long. If only words could've bound themselves into stories Without scrutinizing if they held some meaning If only stories could've read themselves out Trusting the ears of wanting to hear them If only the heart could've kept reminding itself to trust Other hearts as kindreds, even when left misunderstood by few. The midnight wouldn't have had to wait to share its misadventures In a quietness bred by a nightingale that orphaned its own song.
I write a sunset in my mind, as the sun slowly undresses the sky, layer by layer. she's no longer white, no longer blue, she's a burning orange, a shy pink. She makes love with the fingers of a widow.
But I've written this before. In another life. In another body. Somebody has. This borrowed language gnaws away at me. I lie in a bed of words born in another's throat, moulded with another's fingers. The linguists of the past deny me the ego of a creator. But then again, what is truly mine. Proprietorship is merely a coin rolling down a vending machine.
I have my back to the metaphors of every dead poet who sat on this bench. Glory is forgotten, names are forgotten, words are forgotten too. The clouds hover in a voiceless mourning, a veil for the widowed sky. They remain a ghostly white even in the darkness.
When spring came, the tulips bloomed. And so did our love. The jasmines danced aromatizing the earth. And I discovered your love for darkness when I found you admiring the starless nights.
You said the mirth will succumb to the scorching heat when summer bares it's crown. But that's the thing about darkness. It grows darker. It is permanent. And permanence nowadays, is something worth falling for.
And when autumn arrived... I found myself fretting over the emptiness creeping between us slowly. But you turned to the falling leaves, and told me that some falls happen to make the world more beautiful.
But now I halt. For you're gone and I'm scared. For it's close. For it's here. With a question that remains unuttered, Will I still be in love? Will I survive the winter?