Everything has a name, so does the weight of loneliness over your shoulders. You named it cashmere moon and I named mine ambrosia, a drink for the gods. Listen, today the city is crying, falling down recklessly like a time bomb about to explode in pieces, yet at peace. I remember everything you have told me, the time when you sat beside the window, watching the rain fall gently, there was a song playing in your radio, you have forgotten its name, as you try to search for it everywhere in the corners of your broken house. I remember the time, you cried, opening your wounds to mine, how loneliness had crept in your being, and there was no building some fragments back. Your wirling heart wrapped in crimson hues, never fades as I try to remember every bit of your existence.
I have a terrible memory, I like to be the air that you breathe and the uncertainty of existence. Even the home wants to be remembered.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoesíaCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
