I’m ashamed of myself if I believe you are dead
I check the old letters
I speak to you in my silence,
and I apologize if I cry…
for crying over someone who does not die
is a weakness unfit for someone I love.
I’m ashamed of myself if I believe your death,
for I am the one who used to dodge absence with you,
I lure life into my throat when I call your name…
so how can I trade you for silence?
Everything in me refuses to let you fall out of presence:
my memory…
your empty seat…
the salt on my lips when I spell patience,
as if your absence were a lie,
as if you were in the wall,
in the nap,
in the trembling shadow on the surface of imagination.
My whole being remembers your hand when it touched my shoulder,
a warmth we bought from rare moments,
today, the place is cold,
but I still wear that memory like a shield.
I run away from the moment of crying
because it’s an admission,
and there was no agreement between us
on this ending.
I hide your name in my pocket,
I touch it when I’m afraid,
as if it were a charm for survival,
as if it were my prayer without a voice.
I’m ashamed of myself
if I arrange my life without you,
if I adjust your seat,
or erase the scent of your voice
hanging over my coat,
if I conspire against my memory with death.
You never left…
we are the ones who stepped
one step back,
and the scene appeared empty.
