Pieces of Moonbeams

XXX: how beautiful it is

how beautiful it is
to write old poems
wherein your future self
didn't know that you've written

all your observations:
of the people marching towards the sky
that they can't reach.
of the heavy breathing of the earth
when darkness filled the entire room.
of the whispers of the waves
that come forth from the sea.
to the dried, crackling leaves
when spring just only show itself on winter days.
of the limitless descriptions
of the concepts of the universe,
of the never-ending words to describe
of how the sun is so lovely today
that I never get tired of saying to you.

to the kind heart that said:
"poetries are human bodies
for words do have a soul."

how beautiful it is
to let the surface of your skin
touch onto mine
and feel it in milliseconds—
little bumps, steady eyes, turning necks
standing feet, arched brows, sad eyes.

crowd passing by, merchants & stalls
selling drinks in front the buildings,
and I saw you buying next to mine--
this was a scenery that hold a short scene.
a lovely one. myself did shun.
wherein I & the future didn't know
that it's the last one it can grasp.

how beautiful & devastating it is
that us humans ask for simpleness, for peace,
for pleasure, away from bloodstains, away from wars—
but still plead for chaos
when we didn't got what we want.

how beautiful it is
that raw emotions from the soul
overwhelms even those machines that have
minds with no heart to keep hold what we can.

how beautiful it is
when you're running out of words to say
but still write and say even the words
that don't mean anything.

how beautiful it is:
that memories are always attached to people, to things:
like the fragrant smell of fresh daisies
after you wake up in the morning.
like how the smell of antiquated books
still linger to the hair of your nostrils.
like how you hear your favorite song
like it's your first time listening to it--
that it even tickles the layers of your eardrums.

like how my nose becomes cheery
when I exhale the scent of your old perfume.
like how both of our flesh
feel its hollowness from the surface.

and it's like when we wait of what time
will the cosmic things will fall down
from the heavens to come to us earthlings.
the moon, the sun, the stars—the boundless bodies
that's a home of one
of my favorite poetry.

the start, the beginning of every letter, every word
the endings, the periods, the punctuation marks
a twist from your vision, alphabets hugging your mind—
to form a lovely piece that you could only read.

i'm delighted to such
an art came into existence.
i'm delighted that it's born
from inks of letters etched from blank space.

i'm happy poetries exist.
i'm glad i could share it with you.

i'm happy that we could read along the lines,
slid our fingertips and glide through its skin.
the hooks of the written letter endings,
the bodies connected by the hollow pages,
the explosion of letters that scattered on every page,
like how the Big Bang forms everything from nothingness.

i'm glad. i'm really glad that you and I both exist.
i'm glad that poetry is alive and is breathing now
in form of letters not hidden from us.

𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀, von frederick
June 24, 2023