Black silk seldom comes loose
like today, slowly falling
over these cold shoulders,
lost to view, for so long,
some of her older wounds,
healed with no scarring,
have sealed away
the hazardous germs of regret,
for (eternal) good.
Only a few, younger and bolder,
have chosen to stain,
like some belated birth marks
threatening to prodigally abandon
their permanent rosy-purple shades
resembling some abstract paint shapes
on her body
by an impetuous pair of hands.
this handful of painless cicatrix
were scattered around for a reason
they must be more
than some random, a priori seeds
meant to prevent full oblivion
or mildly alleviate
the dysmorphic geometry
and bleeding arithmetic
of one’s own forgiveness.
Being molten, refrozen,
then filled with incandescence
can truly reshape one’s figure,
to the point where
can severely damage
the sight of a hidden beholder.
Head over heels,
she can still stand tall
in front of the mystery man
of lofty ideals and golden letters
in her mid-life dreams.
“Come to think of it, none of these scars
has ever been seen”,
wrapping herself in this new feeling
of innocence and self-empathy,
of immune completeness
outside the solemn borders of reality,
like nothing before.
Pacific arms around neck and waist,
eyes closed dreamingly,
silent hair waves falling back
followed, from a safe distance,
by a sculpturally curved consent
an almost immaterial mergence
of their upper selves
both leaning forward,
in selfless surrender,
with such ethereal grace.
“Nothing we do will erase them,
It’ll just grant their short-lived presence
a deserved place” he said.
Sadly enough for the two of us,
real time cannot be inverted
the way the sand is poured down,
the same sand, over and over again,
removed from the infinite ocean
then locked away and compelled
to measure the tiny bits of our lives
through the transparent funnel
of a purely ornamental hourglass.