Work Text:
To the boys that I loved:
I don't know where to go
and how perfectly rude it is of me
to say that,
to leave you all wondering.
when in each of your letters
kept in tact, you tell me where you'd be
But I can't do the same
I don't know what to wonder
who will dust your letters I kept
will I be penning my own
will I be losing myself as you do
at the thought of you reading mine.
will you be sitting down gently
callous, or helplessly longing
when my letter is a blank page in front of you
I don't know if we'd see each other again
but one day you may see me over a parasol
still drenched by the rain
clutching what's left of my peace.
will you pick me from the crowd
or a shelter from the downpour
will the rain wash away the dust of me
so you couldnt follow
What I do know is
we had 55 days to bid our goodbye
and I spent those days thinking
do you regret this body?
do you regret that you bleed?
would you regret being pieces
similar to me?
so let us conclude this with:
"good night"
because
this is how a master should start,
not with telling you I'm lost
not with: "to the boys that I loved"
not with putting my heart on your hands
already so used to loss
i am no poet to say-
something I will say anyway
that this is just some master
who sat down gently,
helpless to the longing caused
by the callousness of this world,
but hopeful that this one adieu
is not here to ruin you.
And that may you see
this flesh as a place
where you can still be free