Christmasless

Dear MOM,

If ink was the blood you needed to live, i would have written the poem of infinity. If thoughts would bring back the smell f your cheeks, i would have rethought this entire existence a million times over. If prayers would bring back a sight of your glossy smooth skin, i would have prayed for each God ever written. If feeling you beside me is a simple crossover to another stage of being, i would have been there already. If keeping you in the living is freezing time as i freeze in my hardest forms, i would reinvent physics and science.

You were robbed from your being and i was robbed of meanings, as if you’ve invented them, as if you’ve ignited my life with ongoing heartbeat, as if you were my eternal language.

I can hear you in every music i play, i can see you in every place i reach, i can feel you with every sense i perceive, i loose you in every reason i try to make.

I recap my entire life over and over, each passing hour, as if this is turning into an ever looping time machine. As if my present is trying to talk to my past. As if the continuum of being has been shattered the moment i saw you laying on white sheets, stained from your loosing battle with life.

I try to wash you off with tears, but that is as if dark clouds tried washing earth’s mountains and seas.

How may i bring you back other then in my dreams? which alchemy, or sorcery, or perception of living can i invent? How can you be so present, yet non-existent, so alive, but yet not living, so loving yet with no senses to give.

I want to think that a piece of me was broken, but rather, i find myself struggling with the concept of me, without you.

Merry Christmas mom!

12-24-17- 10:21pm – 11:16pm