How would I write poetry of tormenting freedom, and the feathers falling in puddles, right in front of my eyes? Maybe I have carved my emotions in sand, maybe the waves aren't as cruel too, just maybe someone read those carvings before they disappeared.
Today, the young sky roared for me, mocking me, for the lack of words. For these brittle, lustreless words, that I carry around in me, never seem enough. There's a spot in my town, where all the sparrows come back at evening, there's a spot in my heart, waiting for sparrows.
What comes back, isn't what left, and what left sometimes never comes back. And I'm a blabbering fool, slave to the sand and waves.
As a child I collected feathers, coloured them bright, in red and green and yellow and blue and purple, and I loved those feathers dearly. I left them all in the hands of my nursery best friend. I wonder did they lose colour, did he lose them all?
There are colours I have left behind, and there are colours I'm finding anew. If someone from my past came looking for me, even my shadow wouldn't look alike.
I have seen eyes looking down on my arrival, to avoid the awkwardness of confronting a withered leaf, I have heard them talk of my bloom, as I turn my back, I have seen contentment and awe in their eyes, I have heard derision in their sighs.
Albeit, I have left buildings, I have left places, I have left people behind, there's something, just something I couldn't shed off. The rust of the broken tap of a water-cooler behind my classroom, is what hasn't left my fingers.
The sunrise of day I vowed I'm alive as good as dead, still resides in my fading brown hair. The laughter of a 4 am night, and the red hearts, and smile of a sleep, hasn't left my mind. A 3am vulnerability, and 1:30pm tears, outside the doctor's office, I carry them in my purse.
The sand stays, even when the carvings leave. The waves sing, even when the song stops.
You have looked at me like a fault of a sapling, weak enough to grow, you have looked at me like a flaw. I was a raindrop at best, aesthetic but meant to fall, and there are just many, so many that do.
Of envelopes and undone sketches, and the residual charcoal on my palm of an almost masterpiece, I floated away in the winds, rushing past your ears, and the winds are meant to be lost in the sky, they're meant to flutter hair from hair, and rest nowhere.
I'm the last wind of that night, someone slept a bit early, and someone stayed and cried for. I don't mourn anymore. I keep going.