Work Text:
An outstretched hand against the knob,
warring emotions lingering on metal.
Light on your feet, it's so easy to just—
but, desperate eyes ground you.
You never were good at this.
It's only him, you reason.
On the precipice of midnight, it's clear:
two bodies and souls that coalesce into one
your hands straddle his torso
where limbs overlap under covers
four arms; four eyes; two mouths
A shameful reminder of ever-consuming demons.
Tip-toeing on the border of 'sinful'
almost horrible to enjoy it so:
finding comfort in the same burden
the weight of a murderer in your ear.
Toying with the red string of humanity.
That's just our line of work.
As you turn the page on the calendar,
drift farther away from the winter,
spring washing your wounds—
—the steps forward cease being rocks on your soles.
Lean into the warmth of another person draped over your shoulders,
balance easier when the center of gravity
is shared.
It was the most romantic day of the year
when all roads led to you.
No choice but to huddle closer.
Avoid the glass that fell when this world
was shattered upon your skin.
Unexpected until the end
natures punishment for your birth.
You collapse onto black bedsheets.
White and black fur scatter around the room,
no matter how hard you clean, it never really escapes.
A signature smile:
not a smile,
but an upturn of his lips and a gaze that shies.
The words hang not from his mouth—
—it is in the mirror.
Secrets revealed by reflections of your own character...
Ineffable images explained only because you've both thought it before.
Thank you, they whisper.
You're welcome, you want to scream.
Pen and paper.
"A haiku," he says, bashful.
"It helps. Somewhat so."
Wordlessly, you nod.
Fingers brush, passing the page,
a current running.
Seventeen, only.
Paint your core in three moments;
like it's ever enough.
You don't mind the blanket of silence.
It's plush and muffles the vocal subconscious.
The face betrays the inner self,
yet eyes trained on inked kanji stay oblivious.
You imagine what you should write:
lose yourself in the process.
A two-lobed ginkgo leaf swaying,
strengthened by duality
even a blast cannot shake the unwavering bark.
These ideas bloom somewhere;
fly away like dandelion seeds in wind.
The Earth has drawn a line in the sand
between "mind" and "being"
distinct
even if the water muddies the bounds—
even if the tears obfuscate—
you have him to remind you of the difference.
In the meantime, the notebook is empty.
"But, why a haiku?"
you ask, hoping to inspire;
tale of life, in prose.
A storm brews, gaze bleak.
Then, the gray cloud drifts away.
"I'll tell you about it."
You know that storm well.
A guess as to what he means:
regretful sorrow.
The dorm is solitude
a black box in which you reflect onto one another
tiger and wolf
determination and intuition
yin and yang
curse and blessing
Two halves of the same whole.
You're not a stranger to loneliness
—creeping upon your past, taunting in the future—
so you understand.
White hair is unmistakable
yet it's invisible in coats of December snow,
engulfed by bitter ice rivaling humanity.
Nine-lived cats still have to face the fate
Of being strong enough to survive eight times over,
life's work being erased once the clock hits nine.
Memories taste bittersweet
Tinged euphoric and ephemeral,
so horribly sanguine.
It's different for him.
You know he wasn't just a teacher,
but he saved that boy and girl.
Wasn't just a benefactor.
Where are they now, you muse,
Scarred and fallen.
Suppose it's mumbling to a cloud
It will drift on regardless;
suppose the word "merciless" is all you have to say.
This is not your battle to fight.
"Upon his bedside,
propped open to the fourth page,
a whole book of it.
'Aren't I well read?'
he grinned, starting to explain.
I wasn't listening.
Now, I try to see,
if the strongest's haikus are
truly something worthwhile."
There's nothing you can say,
nothing to dull the blade.
Try to stick a knife in your torso:
it gets old, doesn't it?
Your pen shakes in your hand
it's not shoulders crumpling,
but a silent sense of rue.
Acceptance; limbo.
The paper blinks at you—
—unmarred from the black in your gut
and the sludge forming in your brain.
Not lacking in thoughts,
as they circle around you.
Lacking in images,
speaking voice to the mute self.
It is quite a chore.
A sunrise.
Seeds of love hidden underneath glasses.
Describe "fondness" in two words:
you would write a name.
Someone who told you it's okay.
A movie.
The conversation stretches its limbs until it's longer,
you're amiable, a pleasant trait,
Homemade dinner tastes of friendship.
Someone who understood you.
A brother.
Fit together; connector pieces of the same machine
Bred to be something you're not,
yet the yearn to protect brings you together.
Someone who cherished you.
"How do you do it?
How are you supposed to say
all of it, briefly?"
Not pity—it's never pity.
Being examined by him;
synonym for "care".
"You don't. It's simple.
Don't overthink a tribute,
just one word is okay."
One word,
you'd choose "Megumi"
turn a wheel, spun round
the word is etched in every degree—
—Three-hundred sixty sounds little;
A drop of water in the ocean he commands in your head.
Spin again and again
as he is the basis of a beginning, middle, and end,
of a story of unwavering humanity.
Calligraphy is careful strokes of the brush
It is deliberate when "wisdom"'s kanji
is entirely meaningless
without "blessing".
Turn over the verdant ginkgo leaves,
and find prospects for the future in the growth.
Perhaps the way to grieve
is to honor the memory,
and keep living.
Delicately hold the pen,
Kiss the paper gently with the nib
like the graze of butterfly wings against skin.
Let the love pour out of you:
honey-sweet and just as thick.
It's not any easier now than it was;
a depression in the heart is unlike any hole.
Patch it up with eggshell gauze
The cavity isn't getting any smaller,
but notice how you feel a little taller—
a log is nothing compared to mature hickory
Speak kindly of the sapling it was,
the wind carries the words.
Exhausted, you beam.
Let the sunlight filter through the trees
and color your skin.
Read the letters again, they sing to you
Titled,
"to tomorrow and afterwards;"
a semicolon for a never-ending sentence;
Snow coats us in white.
Watch out for melting ice.
But, it's almost spring.
The finished product.
There's so much more, unspoken air—
—breathe it to yourself:
"Viridescent green:
do not abstain from your gaze,
unearth the deep soul."
a haiku you won't tell
but it's obvious to those who look,
Irises, in all of their beauty:
Savior and friend, bloom despite yourself
Thank you for sharing
sits on the tip of the tongue.
Some feelings are best left
inexplicable—
Memories flood in with triggers,
so let yours be something beautiful
and ever evanescent.