When my trajectory was interrupted,
I was in the air.
It was so sweet to fall.
You didn’t see.
I didn’t call.
Nobody saved me. I was myself alone.
It was a scenic route from the above.
What is love but an ideal journey?
I remember the wild buildings, the shy trees,
the flowers collapsing, the mountains whispering
words I couldn’t make out, my poems in doubt.

I remember.

My heart used to be contracted by joy
before my fall. Now I creep and crawl
searching for pieces of me as I recognize
that quiet wind taking me away when
you pulled me up, thinking I could float
like you.
But I couldn’t. Maybe you didn’t hold
my hand as you should. Maybe.
The odds against me are endless.
But one thing I must confess:
I miss you. I missed you. I will always miss you.

I can’t move on.

You are so far away.
You are up in the air.
I can’t reach you.
You can’t reach me.
I recoiled in my abyss.
Our chances of being together
again are statistically nonexistent.
We are distant.
We are what the stars perhaps hear:
That inaudible silence that separates
two hearts forever without a decibel of
reflection or effort.

------- Author's Notes -------

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