WE ARE WHAT THE STARS HEAR

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