Now | Literary Diaries

Now
by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

the miles are simply longer
than the lifetime of a bird,
my days are measured
to solitary nights, I confine.
Those laughs we laughed;
those tears we have not shed;
those succinct moments
of silence and dissonance:
nothing else would matter
but those that curved my spine.

Breathe.
Exist.
Soar high, my little winged beauty.
Be a traveler that needs no map
or a floating leaf upon this life’s current.
Think of me.
Teach me to appreciate
the beauty of closures,
for I have lost the gift of laughter.

Yet every sigh I make
contains many long words
where every morpheme’s fusional,
much like us, bound to be together
if only, and, not a while shorter.

And as my thoughts escape into tears,
I whisper upon the gentle breeze
that kisses my polka dotted skin:
“My weary heart may cease to rest
my truest thoughts, my truest feelings
like summer twilight, ardent but chill
ever hanging in the corners of your being.”

all the May flowers have gone away,
and so are you: sweet memories
of times gone by;
riding upon the open roads
of chance

… where too many dreams and broken bonds lie.

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