Poetry (2015-2017)

Isolated Residue.

The sun is just barely ceasing to exist as it rises upon a pink dawn of the sky. My untouched tears have dried beneath my eyes, making me feel like a paper mannequin in disguise. And with a torn skin that bleeds like mine, the fragile texture is not too far behind. The fading smell of our shared put out cigarette butts have stained the metal railing on which I lean on with poor strength. The air is half-spoiled with pollution, but a gentle stroke of pure wind wavers on. A fresh breeze tugs at my dry strands of hair. It's getting harder to walk outside and not have people stare.

I am feeling like the only soul that's awake in a city that struggles to rest. There is a fountain of overflowing memories in the park that I cannot keep. A zooming car passes by, another lost person returning to a civilization that's fearful of the unknown. I stare down into the cup of now-cold coffee, proposing a small, puddled question of stale consumption.

I freely answer, obtaining a dull sharp kick in the throat.

As I dangle the moulded ceramic over the balcony of screaming fights, I wonder if even the simplest of possessions deserve to be broken to smithereens, a thoughtless negligent drop onto the harsh cement of regretful suicides. I choose to place it back on top of the table of held-in thoughts, an additional dwelling product of occupying silence. I return to my seat of tense posture, hoping to rest my eyes for a darkened moment. but the regular sound of a man who practices his old piano from an apartment across the street disturbs my closed state of mind.

For once, my eyelids continue to stay glued shut as I carefully listen to his distinct notes for internal correction like a stern teacher who looks down at his pupil with striking critique. A delicate dance of soothing lullabies stands before me like a nursing mother whose ultimate tired mission is to hush her child to sleep in a profound dose of tender movement. 

I imagine his effortless playing fingers pressing firmly against the slender black and white keys with perfect precision, leaving a warm reassuring mark of combined wholeness on my usually numb flesh.

If only life could be this deceased and alive, a bitter-sweet paradox of unified strangers who manage to inspire a definite reason to accept one more unpromised tomorrow - that despite everything, life is still worth living in this world of major mistakes and microscopic miracles.