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


a musical rupture

that begin with whisper.

a whisper

that echoed so long

it became a journey

to find the source.

if you can


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.


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.