Crosswalk
I’m not saying that I deserve to be remembered,
I’m admitting that I cannot bear to be forgot.
That I both hope and fear to see you at the opposite end of the crosswalk in the city that whispers your name so sharply sometimes.
That sometimes I read stories and you’re there, in between the lines and falling down the margins.
That you are still the most interesting person I’ve ever met.
I admit that I hope I’m a ghost to you too, even if I’m just a flicker in one of your dreams.
Until I see you again, maybe across the street.
Linger
I was once apart of you that your mind wouldn't erase.
I kept your heart beating at a normal pulsating pace.
A drum beat with a crazy rhythm whenever you saw my face.
Your body quivered from head to toe because your soul couldn't escape.
Do I suppose to apologize for being your every existence?
Should I run and hide when you and I are close in distance?
Is it polite for me to love you even when you are in resistance?
Can I hand you my heart to show you my assistance?
I regret the fact that love grows with no direction.
And it will take over your body and mind with no warnings or inspections.
It dies on its own, and re-births with its resurrection.
Please don't forget me, because it's me you see in your reflection.
How Do I Know?
How do I know
I'm not just another face
a forggeten childhood friend?
How do I know
I won't bleed in and dry out
as just another face in the crowd?
How do I know
I'm not someone put up with
out of sticky pity?
How do I know
that I'm not just rusting chains,
your patience dying as they break?
How do I know
that I'm not just a shadow,
dragged along and desolate?
How do I know
that your memories; my heart
won't succumb to errosion?
Please, don't forget me.
But...I’m not Mom.
She wheeled her father to the top of the hill where they were met with a bench under a tall sycamore tree. When she was younger, her father would throw ball with her whilst catching the sunset. Now, her father sat in a wheelchair, looking frail and thin to the bones, relying on a thick sweater to keep him warm in the middle of summer.
"Dad, do you remember this place?" She asked.
"How can I not," he replied softly, "it was the place I proposed to your mother." He smiled, recalling the fateful day he willingly got on his knees to make his high school sweatheart his forever.
She smiled too, revealing the crinkling in her eyes as she let out a breath of relief. She took a sit at the edge of the bench so that she could be near her father and proceeded to take out a photo album. Dr. Fayward advised jogging father's memory a few times a day to help slow the progression of his deteriorating memory.
"Shall we take a jog down memory lane?" She asked.
"With you, my darling, of course." She watched in fascination as she observed her father taking in her baby pictures and running his fingers over her face. "You were so beautiful even as a baby." As the pictures evolved chronicologically, her father's expression began to change and his eyes began to reveal a tinge of confusion. "Molly, I didn't know you played soccer?"
That's because her mother didn't, but she did. On normal circumstances, she would have been flattered to look like her mom, but in moments like these, her insides desparately pleaded with her father, please don't forget me.
The moment
please don't forget me,
said the moment.
my existance is brutally short,
i have feelings,
substance, desires.
but like all other moments,
I am left out of time,
swept out of the way,
to make room for other moments.
it might be cruelty by definition,
that I am come to be,
only to immidiately know,
that my time is not long.
well...maybe I have wasted,
what little I had.
here another moment comes.
It too is in a rush.
remember us, I beg,
before we turn to ash.