i have seen you, the reason why i couldn’t promise to turn your scars into smiles again.
i have seen you in every possible ways that i would just wish to keep you inside of my palms to learn about your untold sadness. i have seen you and i know, i could never promise to tell you again the story of how summer nights spent outside, or about the wonder of falling stars, or to just remind you that you we’re never really born too late as just like what you told me every time things doesn’t just fit right. i have seen you cursing the rains or even the cloudy summer day but i could never promise to give you smiles or even poetry to give name to the scars that i’ve seen in your eyes for they are wounded but i swear they can also cut deep. i could never promise to let you know how love works for they can come as your favourite song sometimes but often as graveyard: tearstained and forgotten. i have seen you pleading to the universe not to exist ever again hundred or thousand years from now, and still—i could never promise to let you know the smell of your heartaches just to replace it with lost smiles.
i have seen you in every possible ways that i would wonder about your raging storm just to know how someone like you can bear the terrible taste of a lifetime. i have seen you and i could never promise to show you the other side of the ocean, or to teach you how to not stop moving so you’ll be able to breathe and speak your childhood’s language one more time. i have seen you breaking every night, i have seen you writing how you hate metaphors and ironies of life for countless times, and that i know you’re there, somehow, waiting for me thinking that i’ll tell you again how poems could save someone’s life, but i didn’t. i have seen you and that’s the reason. i have seen you unheard, unmoved, and breathless and i could never promise to kill all the unwanted emotions you have in your heartbeat. i could never promise to save you in a way that people want us to do: believing that better days are coming, that happiness is just waiting at the other side of the door, that we should just need to choose to stand up from the compost and remind ourselves we’re still alive. because i know you aren’t—we aren’t. i could never promise because i have seen you, and none of those times i see you alive. i have seen you and i have seen myself learning to love the rainy days, the smell of heartaches, the familiarity of loneliness and pain.
sadness more feels like home sometimes, or often than false hopes. and so, i would love to tap your shoulder just to remind you this: “we’re going home now.” but not to give up, or to hate every deceiving poetry more but to just find comfort in uncertainties, in darkness, in bullets disguised as fireworks. i could never promise to erase all the scars you have underneath your soul, to give you life when you feel like drowning every time that even breathing seems to hurt or to turn all your pains and regrets into pretty metaphors. i could never promise things that i know might took life if mistook as death. now, let’s just go somewhere, let’s go home. not anywhere where there’s only place for smiles and laughter but in a place where we can find ourselves every time: breathing, enduring, surviving. i could never promise to make you love life again and i know you’re currently unlearning the colours of laughter. so then, let’s just not be happy—
let's just be sad. together.
— 02:36 l. sin, to breathe the same sadness
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from We Heart It
