Please know:
I have not given up
on you even after all
the pushbacks
but last night after
I lit the last stick
of cigarette I almost
threw in spite of the rain;
it too also has to die out
I've pulled the string for too long
and came with nothing
I've built too many
houses only so I could
destroy it myself
in rage of knowing
you spend more time
finding ramshackle ones—
my hands are sore from
the labor of building a
shared world with you
but looking back to
where I started I realized:
I am my own world
and home is wherever I go
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoesíaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
