In the stillness of deep night, I speak to the moon. I speak only for myself, which is different than before because I used to speak about you, too. I didn't tell you these things because you never asked, and you never asked anything, just listened. Inside my mind, a dreamscape; it's the same steady snowfall from March with the humidity of these days that will leave soon. I hope it rains on my birthday, I want there to be a torrential downpour. I want everything to be muddy, and I want water to gather around my calves. My sneakers will soak through, forcing me to run under an awning. Maybe then I’d find my lucid self. I’ve learned to work towards it.
In a dream, my mother is frail, old, and blind. I lead her to her rocking chair on the balcony of the house I've built. I don't know where I got the money, nor the smooth voice that directed the construction workers where to put my beams. I was in the same body I'm in now, wearing my bright red shirt that she, my mother, bought me by the bay. I was welcoming in the family that has never stepped foot through our doors. You don't know this, but I wanted to send you this story the minute I woke up.
In the burdens of the dawn, I speak to the sun. I speak for all of us, which is the closest I can get to crossing your borders. I can't tell you these things because I don't know where it'd lead us to, because I'm not sure I want to go towards you anymore. The dank moisture in my mind gets heavier with each day you're gone, with each new thing I never got to tell you. I hope it rains on my birthday, I want there to be a torrential downpour. I want everything to be muddy, and I want water to gather around our calves. Maybe then we'd have an excuse to hold one another tightly, ships lost at sea, losing to the waves. I've learned to live without.
In a dream, I'm late to my first day of work at the zoo. I climb out of potholes to meet my boss at the entrance of our campus, which opens to the animals. I leave my bag in an old car, and I breathe in steam to get it back before the doors of the 1 train close. In reality, I was an hour late to work today; missing my morning alarm, and going to the wrong borough. I saw a lot of small children which you would've laughed at. I lived in a nightmare complex, walking in the haze of my own making, which still I blame partially on your absence.
A year ago, I asked myself a question, and now I have to answer it. I asked if things really end. The answer is that things are perpetually ending: fizzled flames, melted candle wax, dreams never spoken, secrets always kept. People will sway in and out from the scope of my life, which is sometimes too large, and sometimes too small. The haze, though, the tone of my voice the night you kissed me, the shape of my smirk when you laughed. They're all from you, and will become new things about me that others begin to learn. I know this new-old face is not the person anyone needs to run back to, so I'd rather no one ever comes back at all.
Happy birthday angel, I'm glad you're alive. I know that was hard for you, and it's enough that you've endured.
“And it’s enough that you’ve endured” screaming omg, I’ve missed your writings <33