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
accidentally dropped
on her body
by an impetuous pair of hands.
Somehow,
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
from within
can truly reshape one’s figure,
to the point where
your tears
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”,
she whispered,
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.
