Pocochon

There is no lonelier place to live than inside one's self… No greater pleasure than the joy of being desired.

Sometimes I find myself in the middle of a room crying inside, as my tears fall through me, like raindrops diving into the craters of the moon.

Mixing into the dirt stolen from the graves of hundreds of my mistakes. Turning the guilt in my gut into a swamp where there's no escape.

I feel desolated and cornered, like a spider seeking shelter in a old house that's being renovated.

Every breath I take seems to dissipate into the saturated aura that entraps me.

An unrecognizable pain, creeping like a shadow that numbs me.

I want to wake up, but, am I really dreaming?

I want to understand your melancholy; wander through the abyss that you inhabit.

I want to be the happy blanket that wraps you, and drain the pain that drowns you.

I want to know your secrets, explore your silences, extinguish your burning loneliness, and unfog your eyes of nothingness.

I want to germinate the empty fields in your mind, grow myself in the fertile spaces of your heart.

The moon, your breath, the breeze… a caress and our first kiss, and you, in spite of time, still stuck in me.

An afternoon, a morning, and another kiss. Your hair, your mouth, your eyes, and in disguise, your heart printed on mine.

First love, that flower, this desire… Your warmth, that voice, . Your last tear, a cry, and that implausible goodbye.

Sometimes it gets so quiet in this house, that for a brief moment I get to see your fleeting ghost before I find myself staring at a wall.

I wonder if what allows you to come and go is this sorrow I have accumulated, so profound, and at times persuasive and silent, that no amount of noise can control or dissipate.

As one longingly admires an old picture, my mind replays fragments of memories, unearthing my past, in a desperate gasp for hope, as if happiness were the goal of my existence.

I can still hear your laughter, loud and intentional, like the flapping of a bird being freed from its cage. An incessant echo in my head that reminds me the sparkle of my life isn't completely gone.

Your subtle voice is a familiar sound. A constant presence, like a never-ending comfort. Sometimes slowly moving to the left side of my chest, to prevent my heart from indulging its pain.

Ultimately, I guess this is what it feels like to be reminded that someone you love, loved you back.

If I could sweep away your footprints from my past I wouldn't be able to trace my way back.

If I could wash off your caresses from my skin, the next time I feel you wouldn't be a mortal sin.

If I could drain this flooded mind of all the thoughts of you, my ideas and dreams wouldn't be subdued.

If I could unearth every seed of doubt you planted in me, I would let hope grow, and finally set myself free.

Our misery is the cliff from where we throw ourself every night.

Falling into the deep waters of our own insecurities… disappearing between the expanding ripples.

Sinking into the silence that lies under our skin, like the dull cry of an endless farewell… incessant and debilitating.

Indecisive, like everchanging passing clouds dispersing into a gray sky… so full of nothing.

When I am gone, you'll walk around like a ghost in pain, trapped in your own nightmares and destined to never wake up.

You'll be an elegy; the sadness that swamps the night spreading like cold, uninspired.

You'll be found in the moon’s shadow, among the fallen fireflies, waiting for them to give you the light you lost.

Time will repeat your name in the righteous voice of silence, like soundless cotton balls bouncing against the walls of my heart, breaking into the inert dust you emanate...  

Wanting to be heard, but falling into stillness.

Some wounds are best left undisturbed.

There are people without a heart, many. Many hearts without feelings, too many. Too many empty heads full of mouths, like socks and pockets full of holes.   Black holes and agonies of different colors painted over perfect whites, heartless and indifferent.

There's a clock that does not tick, but still runs late. Too late to remember that sarcastic and disbelieving deconstruction has already been installed in your head - like a hoax that preserves your failures. Each stored in individual glass jars, labeled, dated and classified on the shelves of an ever present memory.

A memory without dreams, because they have been buried in a nearby paradise after   fighting a controversial battle of thoughts. Unfolding a mastered deception by discovering an ineffective ability to hide discomfort.

I wake up every day facing the same broken clock and realizing that time was, is and may never be enough, but will always be eternal, inopportune and punctual.

Let go of the past so you can change the present. Forgive yourself.

Sadness is not really a mood state, but a small, substantial and arbitrary weakness. Although, we give it so much importance that we tend to carry it everywhere we go like a tiny sky inside one of our pockets.

Happiness is (without a doubt) in another place, where we are almost never present. Where time, broken, seems to go in slow motion,   like a weary projection.

Similar to health, happiness is only appreciated in its absence; or like love in its deficiency.