you were walking home where your heart began but didn’t stay. you were walking home because no one was coming. hands in your pockets as if crescent moons,
stumbling, streetlight by streetlight in a city claimed by a milky white fog, which is to say
you were inside your mind
again.
you are here often
in the graveyard of everything you’ve
killed, everything that fell through
and how gorgeous
that nothing here belongs to no one else.
that in this fog, from a distance, the
architecture looks slender and true
as a fire-escape
arranged for and by
catastrophe
you’re here often
where you forget the sounds for
your name. the way it tastes in your mouth in its exiled silence
soft and untimely.
where you know the price to enter a song
is to lose your way back
so say it. say your name out loud. despite
the crack in your voice, despite
your voice. sing it
to prove everything that falls through
isn’t an endless tragedy, just
summer. that our lives are brief and
for a moment, death, life and everything in between
can be described through words and lived again
through decaying memories.
that your words in ink staining the pages
look like black bones of a mythical creature
fossilised on its way to touch the sky
that despite them being capable of disaster
they’re also what saved you from many
that when rain falls as ice only to touch your face
and changes to water
it is to remind you that you too can change
without disappearing
that when your mother calls you home
she wants you to know she’s finding her way back too
remember
it was only yesterday that you flew
don’t be stunned by the falling now
for gravity is a funny thing
it only pulls those who believe in
love.
About the Creator
Mesh Toraskar
A wannabe storyteller from London. Sometimes words spill out of me and the only way to mop the spillage is to write them down.
"If you arrive here, remember, it wasn't you - it was me, in my longing, who found you."
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Comments (1)
so very true. love it.