Can you hear me, from my side of the world ?
Yelling “I'm fine” so loud I hope my eardrums burst. That way I won't have to listen to the whining of my heart when someone speaks your name.
Yelling to cover the skin your missing body has left exposed.
Yelling to keep the pain at bay like a wild animal, back arched, teeth showing. Standing taller than I am. I turned in a freshly painted scenery flat so I could scare the hurt of you away.
My heart has stop breaking for you long ago, I’ve ran out of spare pieces. Now it squashes where you walk. Squash, Squash, Squash. Can you hear, tell me, from the depth of your own pit? What a mashed heart sounds like ?
Yelling so my mouth won’t softly remarks that he kisses like fierceness has met naivety, while you kissed like belonging tastes, acceptance and confidence entwined.
Yelling so there is no place left to remember how you could hold the whole of me in your gaze. Like there was nothing else more deserving to be seen in the world.
I wouldn’t feel fat then, or tiny, scared or unworthy.
Suspended to your touch I would cease to be; A series of adjectives paced by superlatives or quantifiers. My ego instantly knew it had no right to be here and gave way to, the eerie silence of two souls standing on each side of love.
Yelling to wove cotton thin strands of air around all the remains. This us you tore down has sharp edges, and I still have to carry the part you left.
Yelling to cram all the way from heart to mouth with words, packed enough to swell the skin so there is no space left for the ones I keep rearranging, polishing, and turning,and turning - they have to be pretty for you - to claw their way out.
Yelling to jam the broken mechanism that sets you live in all my fantasies.
They’re not made of impossibles. Dreams come with a warning note stapled forefront :“Indulge with care, there is that girl from 2nd grade, riding a charizard right out the windows”.
But I don’t see us - all smiley through a Valencia colored filter - scuba diving in the Bali, just to be back in Tokyo on time for one of our retro gaming night, and waking up everyday as if the world was our favorite playground.
No, my fantasies are made of little nothing, taken from a pile labelled “Discarded drafts scenario”. They are of “maybe” and “what if?”.
Like those days I would push the door of my building, and you are sitting there, waiting in the lobby. A second can feel long, when your eyes refuse to register the four empty sofas.
Or the times I'm mindlessly reading the labels on the soap bottles and I hear the shower door open behind me. I can’t always catch hold of the smile, but I can assure you no one ever comes in.
Yelling your name a thousand times over, to pin the syllables to cold air. Hoping that if I hammer it hard enough it will punch the meaning out of it.
Emptied of their substances, they will go back to be sounds and letters. Sounds and letters. Sound, and, l e t t e r s.
Yelling so I can’t read what the boy with the knife carved under each stone of the construction site holding my future. “I was here”.
Can you hear me?
Cause I can’t hear you,
and Im scared you stopped yelling too.