Work Text:
Sea, would you be so kind as to swallow me?
Turn me into dust?
I knock.
Dear traveler other-door, would you mind hearing a poem?
I hear a knock.
I loved you raw — raw flesh beyond repair.
I chewed your absence down to the bone, only salt remained.
I kept your name in pockets of ash.
I expect no mercy: only the cold silence of the sea.
I didn't get a response.
At the edge of the beach, the world is measured in breaths.
The sea calculates my absence with the precision of a plumb line.
I sit where the stones hold steps I will never take again,
and the surface returns only fragments. broken lights, undone names.
I remain, empty hands, dry vigil.
waiting for the salt to do what I could not: to order the chaos in silence.
I knock
traveler other-door, would you mind hearing a poem?
There is no response, but i'll keep waiting.
The waves disturb my thoughts, just as the swaying of the trees reminds me of the flames igniting in the wood, which you embraced with such charisma, and left me with such disdain.
To see you leave to turn into ashes, almost belittling.
I watched you crumble to dust, like a dead ember,
and the world, blind, made a trophy of your flame.
It's no consolation, it's an insult: to reduce to paper
the body that was map, port, and route.
The hands that once traced our fate
were left empty, smelling of charcoal
the farewell, a dry cut in the palm, then
only the ancient murmur of death remained.
Victor Grantz
I miss your paradoxical form of talk
And the way you brought a strangeness to the place you went.
Maybe our exchange of looks?
The beach where I am is cloudy. No stars, no sun to burn my skin, only the whisper of the horizon painted in gray.
However, the wind blows strongly, carrying sand into my eyes, almost carrying away the letter—not the one for you, Victor, but the one for society, for humanity that preaches order.
Your letter will soon be delivered, Victor. Me, would you have the courage to read me? To understand even the last fragments of my soul? Burned soul, drowned soul.
I know it's wrong, our hearts weigh the same. But I know you're the only one who could understand what's going on in my thoughts.
Only silence.
Victor, The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?
Still cloudy.
December 25, 1904
It's your birthday
I didn't have money to buy you a present
Nor cake to eat
Perhaps a brief presence
A letter
Thats my words, a letter to the world that i know will never know about my presence. But maybe yours.
Even after everything i did
Do i deserve to turn into dust?
To be swallowed by the sea?