When my trajectory was interrupted,

I was in the air.

It was so sweet to fall.

You didn’t see.

I didn’t call.

Nobody saved me. I was myself alone.

It was a scenic route from the above.

What is love but an ideal journey?

I remember the wild buildings, the shy trees,

the flowers collapsing, the mountains whispering

words I couldn’t make out, my poems in doubt.

I remember.

My heart used to be contracted by joy

before my fall. Now I creep and crawl

searching for pieces of me as I recognize

that quiet wind taking me away when

you pulled me up, thinking I could float

like you.

But I couldn’t. Maybe you didn’t hold

my hand as you should. Maybe.

The odds against me are endless.

But one thing I must confess:

I miss you. I missed you. I will always miss you.

I can’t move on.

You are so far away.

You are up in the air.

I can’t reach you.

You can’t reach me.

I recoiled in my abyss.

Our chances of being together

again are statistically nonexistent.

We are distant.

We are what the stars perhaps hear:

That inaudible silence that separates

two hearts forever without a decibel of

reflection or effort.

Karla Bardanza

1 comment:

  1. You have woven ecstasy and lifes meaning in this. To be oblivious to what surrounds when with the one you love. When alone, you have to rediscover who you are and pick up the pieces. It feels like madness being so consumed by love, that it takes you away to a place you have never been, and can't seem to find a place of your own. tc