still ripe with unbelief,
whenever this ends, wherever thereafter begins,
we became ocean, seed, star, poem,
the dark still pumping through our veins —
no way back
no answer yet
everything, yet nothing, left behind,
nothing, yet everything, carried inside
it was convenient, even pleasant,
for a while,
till we learnt reality was the mirage,
and the mirage too real,
what about the years then?
what about being?
being and belonging?
what about moonlight and skin
and the void and the rain,
especially the rain?
what about wetness?
maybe it was only about
that moment of knowing, enduring,
of that certainty of surrender —
knowing the sun would melt our wings
knowing that falling was another
remembering that within the clouds
we too smell of unborn lake —
but that wasn’t the plan, was it?
we rose upward on the saddest wave
and even the sky couldn’t tell
what was awake and what surely
what was manifest and what
what was true — this hand, that promise —
and what was just a feeling.