I.
My mother might take a note for myself falling in love to a man, as I am also one of them, and she would said, “Why must a man? I’d rather let you fall in love with the roses behind our neighbor’s garden, so why. Why must a man.” I stood up unpredispose beside her then I’d whisper venially, “But he is the roses in our neighbor’s garden, Mother, why must anything or anyone else?”
II.
Forgive me for turning you into poetry too soon— too many—because words are so dear to me, as well as you. And I’d like to keep you near to me in between my ribs. Upon my bare hands. Into my veins.
III.
And if my dearest darling is a man. He will be no different, everything especially the burning flare as if I might seen myself as the moth. The teeth to my flesh. The bones of my poems. In another life I might never been able to write again ever since I’m turning blind over letters, yet he’ll be the only living poetry that I can read. I do love him too much his name starting to hum into my veins.
IV.
Anyone could’ve seen me naked but your eyes are the only one I’ve found coated me comfortably just like the summer to its June. If there’s anything you’d wish to our dearest God, I know I’ll be wanting to become books while you become the dried roses from maiden’s blush as we would often found ourselves pressed against each other in the garden. Your solid lips to the twin rivers behind my ears.
Maybe in our next life I am the flame to your moth. Maybe in our next life I am the lungs to your ribs. Maybe in our next life you are my cup and I am your coffee. Never will be without you because I’ll reborn as much as you’ll do. I love you. I’ll keep on willing to found you in every lifetimes.
V.
You would’ve love to sit with me under the willow tree and I read you poems that I write about you since my blood are well too tangled with your name. Times where everything feels so right. Our fleeting moments. I’ll breathe nothing but life on the crook of your neck.
VI.
I’ve wanted to become an apple tree ever since I know apple was your favorite fruit. I love you too much to the point of growing. I’ve wanted to become softer to myself. I’ve wanted to stop calling myself the forest on fire anymore because I might still burn myself too much, but oh my love. You most likely the twin rivers coming in floods to extinguish the flare in each of my trees every time they are flaming.
VII.
In another life, I am yours and you are mine. We become the smallest ladybugs that’s ever lived. Raisins for dinner but sometimes you’d steal it for our tomorrow’s breakfast in bed made from withered vine. I love you. Please meet me in another life as the smallest ladybugs that’s ever lived.
VIII.
I want to become a poetry that’s written on each of your palms. I want you to recognize me as fleeting as the ink would’ve linger the moment it kissed your skin. I want to be tangled with you. Written or kissed. Anything. Everything. I’m far already yours even before I know your name.
IX.
And who am I again if I ain’t the one who’s fall for you madly? I’m doubting God will ever teach me something deceitful about love ever since I learned the way you see Him from your eyes. That one morning where He would’ve knocked the door and you’d appear as the truth. My truth.
X.
In a dream I don’t tell anyone I had just kissing your palms when I wish you easier breathes, soft words, and tons of your fishes can feel most likely they are at home because you are one. Love that wouldn’t ever bite. You are the grown parts of mine aside from the rotten one. Let along the life takes you any where it wants to and to you, I hope you always remember your way back home.
The Writer’s Tiny Footnote:
Once again, happiest birthday belongs to my Kim Leehan. I love you, your existence is an absolute bare of my own. May you never get tired to live your life and get cuddle with your dog.
