Dreaming With Death
That summer night when I met him,
green eyes flickering from my dangling feet
to my wonder-filled gaze,
I figured even Death could fear.
He sits through the boredom of my days,
through lectures and quiet tests, waiting
to spend an end of the day with a warm tea
as he plays with the curled tip of my hair.
Of all the colors, Death’s lips was pale blue
with a rosy dew, tasting like cherries,
smooth like whipped cream
and warm as the start of January.
With our backs on the bed in cold June,
under cozy bedsheets we’d trace the ceiling,
paint it with innocent feelings.
I embraced the comfort of a cloak in which
Death felt so lonely.
Since my early days, I learned to start my sentence
with an apology because I always felt like I was a burden.
My questions did not even seem important so I said sorry.
Some days, it is more tolerable. Other days,
no matter how much I struggled, I wanted to carve an “I am sorry” on my forehead.
I say sorry to everybody but the one I should really say sorry to is myself.
You don’t know what a person goes through, even if you are with them most of time.
Everyone deals with a demon; mine is simply me.
I have not won any battles for most of the time,
I went to bed feeling more defeated than content;
not an easy thing when you have to live in my mind.
It is gripping your sheets when your nails want to scrape your skin,
biting your tongue to stop yourself from screaming,
wishing you were somebody else.
It is really trying until you miss and then, out of fear, stop because you could break a vein.
I apologies then I cut the call.
I apologies then I miss dinner.
I apologies then I stay in bed.
I apologies and then I love them still.
I apologies and then I hate my reflection.
Am I sorry because I really am?
Or am I saying sorry because those that should really say sorry cannot even say it?
Two Persons and Time
In ten years, you run into me in a coffee shop.
Hearts racing and sweaty palms, of all the things you had to tell me but couldn’t say.
I wear my hair longer than I ever did before
Yet, you still choose not to drink coffee for the bet I made you.
You still furrow your eyebrows looking as intimidating as can be.
And your eyes still as pretty.
I sip on my coffee that I swore I would never drink.
You wrote me letters by hand; they fill your drawers and you cannot seem to find more place to keep them.
Sighs as you look at that Star Wars mug you had at mine as your designated mug and watch as the light sabers light up.
In ten years we run into a coffee shop
and you look at me in the eyes and remember all the time that they talked to you when words were not enough?
You’ll remember those lazy cuddles we had right before devouring each other.
Maybe, even the fights while we tried not to smile at each other.
In ten years from now, I ask you to marry me and
you’ll say ‘yes!’ as if you were waiting for me to say that ten years ago.
Your response would be an ‘I do’ instead of ‘we will see what the future holds’.
I will still love you ten years from now.
What I have for you, I will never have with anyone ever again.
Author: Hanshika Heeramun
Author Bio: And if love could say ‘no,’ it would do it with a kiss and tell you, see you later. I live to inspire and breathe the ocean air and to be one with the things around me but I am a starseed in search of home. Sadly, I find it in arms that do not want me.