I. Death

There’s something about the word death that makes your skin so raw and tender that you feel any slight touch of breath would be a pain. It’s like your whole body is an open wound. More like a giant black hole gnawing you from the inside out, splicing your skin and nerves, curdling your blood and sticking lances in your brain that you hurt. You, all of you, hurt.

You were so raw and tender that day.

II. Song

A voice rang through a small room, a crowd of fifty-something people sitting on lean, spindly chairs. The only spotlight was the one held up by some good folk who has found no other good job but to be at the other end, hiding. But the girl at the center, however; ah. It was her time. It was her night. In the little throng were the audiences of the heavens, watching her unfold herself word by word, note by note, into humanity. Heaven descends in a few minutes of glory.

III. Names

We try to bring up names because ours isn’t as good. Because there is always someone else. And this, is an excuse. We learn to point because we do not like to be simmered for stew on a hot seat. We like to point because our names doesn’t light banters and would not relent to any absurd notions of being human. If that is the case, I would like to bereave myself of my skin.

I brought up yours, just in case. Yours were inside my pocket. A little shield from arrows. I hope you don’t mind.

IV. Grown-up

I convinced myself to listen to grown-up songs because I am a grown-up. Quiet, speaking, moving, creeping. It crawls inside my skin with giving it a jolt; no pressure, just a light touch of light, a satisfying kiss of the wind. Because growing up is like that. You lose all the delight for the adventure; life has less glitters. The facets are clearer now; so close as if you’re looking at a mirror. Life, once a wide and reckless sea, is now a smaller, serene lake. You can embrace the full view if you like what you’re seeing.

I like what I am seeing.

V. Tangled Strings

I always knew you had a name. The way you were held; you were loved. Old, ashen, but still in shape. Long fingers lingered at your neck, a silent romance. He touches you and you come alive; you sing songs, you weep, you howl. You are magic.

I will always ask what your name is. I can’t ever replace you.