She kept a red journal tainted with sins and painted with truths. Its pages were imprinted with her bear and naked soul. Its sheets contained sincerities and burned with untold passions. She was certain no one would notice, as there was nothing peculiar about this book. She had no fear of it ending in the wrong hands, and she was pleased to own it. Such confidence and fearlessness ended at the sight of prophetic dreams and visions. She stopped. She stopped filling the lines with what she carried in her heart, with what overcrowded her thoughts. Days went on, and on, until she would finally make room to write. By then she would have already bottled up countless emotions, swallowed her sadness, and wept her frustrations. On a Sunday evening she sat there, writing episodes of the tiny little things she called dents. Dents of emptiness. Dents in her heart
love
For my father
I see the highest mountain, and you are at the very top.
I then imagine myself climbing restlessly–if I climb just far enough, fast enough–will I capture a glimpse of you?
Will I follow you through thick clouds and into heaven?
From down here I gaze at the mountain’s peak, beholding its beauty.
At this peak you stand; at this peak you sit.
The sun’s rays shine on you, their warmth comforting you.
The rain cleanses your soul, suggesting rebirth.
At the top of this mountain you are rejoicing, you are free.
From down here, how I long to sit with thee.
My Moon.
I am sleeping next to you with my back turned to you. Although my eyes are closed shut I imagine the touch of your bear skin rubbing against mine. I somehow end up back in your arms, inhaling your breath and sharing the air we breathe. My face is buried in your chest, and slowly my lips find your familiar lips again…And it’s as though two bodies recognized one another, as if two souls aligned.
Drive.
Grieving in his name has taught me that in the end of it all, people always leave. No matter who is there for you to fall back on and despite of whatever kind words are whispered into your ear, it is ultimately your own responsibility to bounce back and pick yourself up. People always leave. Sooner than later you are left to fend for yourself, to lift your own spirits and peddle forward.
You can hang onto someone—cling onto him like no other—in hopes that they don’t ever let go. Yet deep down you know he let go a long time ago. This time around was only courtesy and compassion, and you recognize it’s only momentary before he lets go for good. You try to tell yourself that day is nowhere near, that it will probably never come, but deep down and in your heart of hearts you already know the answer.
You begin asking why you allowed yourself to get this far, why you knocked on a door that was already shut. It’s too late now for questions and blame. You find yourself doing corny yet sweet things, only to drive back home in silence. You and your heart are officially dumb.
Unfilled.
When rain leaks through a roof, a bucket contains its dripping water. Broken ceilings, torn walls, and ripped curtains can be fixed, rebuilt, and sown back together. What happens then when emptiness overtakes you? An emptiness so infinite that it is immeasurable. Emptiness so deeply rooted that you cannot comprehend where it starts or where it ends.
No words can fill a void like this. It’s like pouring high spirits and encouragement into a broken glass—it cannot contain these. Lying in bed throughout the day, forcing yourself to oversleep becomes familiar. To cry quietly and mask sadness as anger becomes natural.
I picture you sitting on this very same couch, legs crossed, as always. I remember you washing your trucks, so rigorously and with pride. I think about meeting with you for dinner. Losing you is losing a part of me, though I know your spirit is with me.
Thy Heart
A heart is aching,
Filled with agony,
Overshadowed by uncertainty.
A heart is heavy,
Flooded with capriciousness,
Drowning in despair.
A heart is flaming,
Burning fiercely of desire,
Blazing in silence.
A heart is pensive,
Crowded with free spirits,
Rebelling against righteousness.
A heart is aching.
Infinity
I cannot say whether time was in the way or not. All I know is that you meant something to me. Throughout the years, in between the gaps, and entirely in those random moments—I carried you with me, always. Time is irrelevant in matters of the heart; time is irrelevant.
Ocean’s Photograph
I feel like running away, away from here and into your arms. Back into my adolescence and to when I first met you. You were the closest thing to simple love that I ever knew—just plain, old-fashioned love.
Deceit
I feel happy, yet not fulfilled. You are without a doubt the most deceitful and conniving person I have encountered. Nevertheless, you do not cease to also be one of the most passionate. How can such perfection be so flawed? Perhaps you are the beauty of it, or perhaps you are the monstrous master of it all. I opened my eyes to look up at you, only to discover that your eyes were closed shut, to hear your heart race and to find my fingers intertwined with yours. That ought to count for something, I think to myself at times. I cannot fall into fantasies, however, I refuse to breathe deceit.
lizbethavila 