Your edges were smooth, you were sort of a moon to me
Your words were smooth too, almost comforting
I told you I no longer fall
You valued honesty, albeit hidden on your part, like the moon hiding its face on nights
(I get a glimpse of the fullness of you twice a month, when everything grew darker
and you shone in effort to be bright)
I knew you weren’t prepared for it,
So I lied though my rows of teeth, and said,
“No, I no longer do.”
How much of transparency was there?
Was it found in the stories, in the cloudiness of our drinks?
In your thoughts, in my lack of intention?
In your tone while holding me by my waist,
In your eyes when you looked at me just as I was entering the door
to bid farewell to the night?
In your messy, bed-hair?
In your scribbled selfies?
In your need for support and affirmation?
How much of pain was there?
Was it in my guilt upon discovering that you weren’t the moon
In realising that standards of the norm are never reflective
In self-blaming and finding that there was nothing to rest
Blames upon, because even the aching fingers had lost their spots to crack
And the aging hands would not carry them?
In finding that you get to crack your fingers best, when there are no other fingers there
to fill the gaps?
All which was said and done were merely
Letters sent out too late.
I was soft, and I should have know that it is in my name,
Not in my blood.
Not in you, or anyone else,
Merely in my father’s dreams.
A dream too sacred to be brought up today.