100812

For quite some time now, I've been feeling numb. I'm alive, but I'm just another deadman walking. I can barely feel anything, and I hate it. If the basis for being alive are having emotions, I might as well be a rock.

#1

My fingers will always write your name whenever my eyelids grow heavy, whenever my head is enveloped with a thick cloud of reveries, whenever the wall between reality and dreams have crumbled. I will write about you until my fingers are weary and calloused, until my hands shake, until the candle flickers and the flame slowly is extinguished, the darkness enveloping the entire room, the only light coming from the space between the wooden floorboards and the door that creaks with every gentle breeze.

Let my last breath be an utterance of your name and my last act, other than the obligatory tragic recollection of the numerous regrets that I’ve buried on one January evening, be a solemn scene in which I will hold this book dearly, my lips curved into a small smile as I fondly remember the curve of your neck that I used to kiss, those hands that I lovingly held whenever I could.

They will not remember me, the lonely writer who dedicated herself to you, but they will remember you every time they see the spaces in between every line and every word and and how you have inspired me to write poem after poem, page after page.  You will continue breathing in the minds of those who have read about you, and you will never cease to exist. You will live in these pages, your blood, the ink, your body, this book. 

Written last January 2012.