Leaf by Fisseha Moges
It is said
a breath takes 7 years
to mix completely with the atmosphere.
which means in another part of the world
what you exhale at this exact moment,
will be inhaled by someone else
7 years from now.
I pray they know what to do with it.
for I remember
when I once blindly invited
myself into your shallows
like new skin.
i pray that i become
more than just a fistful
of stolen,
a husband who knows death,
or a scripture for nomads.
you must know now,
after all these leftovers,
that sampling
your heart
became my forbidden
miracle.
a musical rupture
that begin with whisper.
a whisper
that echoed so long
it became a journey
to find the source.
if you can
remember
what an unraveling
of emotion tasted like,
when it has been drained
of intuition and rationality,
then maybe
you may come close
to understanding a fraction
or an iota
of what you did to my spirit
the moment i saw you last.
must i fracture
my own smile
to prove
the individuality
in my own mistakes?
was it necessary
to baptize the right side
of my bed
with abandonment?
not once
did i ever say
it was because
“I am only human. i am only human. i am only human”
Far too many times
do we throw that term around
and use it as a scapegoat
for our mistakes
you would think
we would be super-human by now.
saying i was sorry
wouldnt even suffice.
ironic, though.
how paranoid we get,
when we love something
to perfect,
we question
how such came into
our possession,
like we were not worthy
of loving
in the first place.
i dont have to
memorize my DNA
to know
that our prayers
were born
to fit each other’s
breathing patterns.
i dont need fate
to propagate
my choices for me
when i am not myself
in your presence.
your presence
also served as my Achilles’ heel.
i harbored
a boiling pot of questions
with misinterpreted definitions.
almost became sure
we wrote our lives
with two different dictionaries.
you were trying to find the meaning
of our purpose together.
i was trying to find a purpose
to mean something to you.
while I am still figment
in your memory,
pray i write
a poem
seven breaths long.
and not one redemption song too short.
my reason was all i ever had.
my everything was all you never had.
i do not know flight yet
but i know of open wounds,
and soulless bones
buried under fallow lands.
six foot deep reminders
of appreciation.
you are not here,
but i can still
detect your reflection
in the syllables of my afterthoughts.
wondering
how many women
did it take to love
for Neruda
to write Sonnet 17.
and if countless nights
were spent
reassuring the salvation
in his bones,
that we are
born with half our souls,
then maybe we are not
so different
from the redemption we seek.
bless me,
for i have buried my half
behind the orgasm
hidden in your left ear.
bless me.
like that crumbling night in August.
when you became
my midnight revival.
when we karma sutra-ed
so devilishly
we forgot to build shrines
to our aching muscles
to thank them,
for sustaining
the devourer in our mouths.
the next time i see you,
i shall trap our ashes
underneath the creases
of our undisturbed bed.
i will ask you to lay with me,
bare feet, bare hearts and all.
let our foreheads touching
create the spark
needed to resurrect
us phoenix once again.
and maybe.
we may find holy in our art,
and maybe.
just maybe.
i may become
the chosen one,
when one of your breaths,
makes it into me,
lifetimes, from now.
