tell me who we are

We are the same.
Two reflections together abandoned.
Always striving to perfectly mimic the already perfect.
Until the person standing in front had noticed their other self in the mirror no longer moved as they did.
Instead us reflections dance disjointedly and try to consume what is in front of us.
Like the black liquid sea tries so hard to absorb the stars and become them.
A pretty picture so easily shattered by ripples created from a mere insect landing on its surface.
Just as we had been broken, when the perfection we wanted so badly to copy had turned so slightly to face us and seen our hungry jaws and extended arms.
Reaching for their skin, hair, eyes, and also what lay beneath the body.
The soul, perhaps.
And with their flawless fingers they pushed the mirrors we thrive inside.
Pushed them to the dirt and watched us both crack and then lay limp.
The last thing our desperate eyes had seen,
were those two broad backs turn away and walk, able to pull from our starved grasp as we both
ceased to move.
I looked to you, but your tears had already fallen down porcelain cheeks.
My throat was too paper thin to call out your sweet name.
I wanted to stretch my hand out to you but I was already long gone.

夜の涙

He never tells me when he's lonely, I know he doesn't want me to find out.
But the way he moves leaves an air of something empty, like a street after the rain stops.
His hands hold my cheeks and he stares into my eyes like his missing pieces are buried within my memories somewhere.
Our chests pressed so close together, hearts beating in tandem, each heart willing the other silently to never stop pumping.
Tears don't fall like raindrops, but more like candle wax, slowly down our faces, sliding and caressing.
They mingle with skin and sweat and are lost in bodies of emotion.
Time has no meaning at night, seconds pass like an eternity. The clock stops ticking and we might sleep forever if the sun didn't turn the night into another promise.

過去

The past trails after me as a cluster of memories that have failed to be forgotten.
They grasp my sleeves, wanting to hold me close, wanting to touch my face and kiss my eyes closed.
In the nothingness of nighttime, they sit aside my bed, indenting the covers, gazing, with hands made of old moments and goodbyes, they smooth down my skin and push pins through my eyelids.
They split my chest open with knives made of spilled tears and pull away the flesh like I have pulled away from living.
My heart doesn't beat, it lays as a place holder for the promise of days to come. My ribs, cracked yet still solid, cradle it fondly, protecting it from what the world has to offer.
Those hands scratch at me, squeeze the breath right from my lungs, pull my organs like they would pull a thread through a sewing needle.
My blood runs warm and gentle, it stains everything I've ever had.
When sunlight shines across the room and I am no longer a corpse of the night, those memories with their familiar fingers and unsettling presence once more fall behind me to create a shadow of who I once was and who I long to be once more.

being alive at night

The silence of darkness.
The silence of sleep.
The silence of my mind racing.
When the sky above me turns to milky opaqueness dotted with specks of light, I stretch my arm out to line my fingers up with the constellations. They play around my hand with silver lined clouds in tail. They are air and water and tiny droplets of starlight.
Each little droplet could contain a million animals or a million people or a million cities. They are a million seconds apart from each other and a lifetime away from me. 
I can close my hand, dig my fingers into my palm and grab a handful of those dancing drops and pull them into me.
Absorb those animals and people and cities and all the love they share between them. An innumerable amount of love. A million different kinds.
Love for the morning, love for cold soup, love for ripped sweaters, love for worms that dry up on the sidewalk, love for books with cracked spines, love for walking through the snow, love for cigarette smoke, love for sadness, love for paper cuts, love for forgetting a word, love for dead people, love for alive people, love for you and for me. 
Love for us, individually and together.

las estrellas fugaces que ví en aquella noche.

I have dreams of memories that are not my own.

I walk through rooms worn with years, they are dull and dusty.

I run my hands across the cracked baroque wallpaper that surrounds me.

The patterns touch and connect, leading me to a forgotten place.

Porcelain sheets adorn the tired bed in place of perfection, pillows lay in wait for eyes to close on top of them.

Pictures of people that have lived so much life hang like bodies.

They melt and weep down the walls.

They weep for me and for themselves.

The window that bathes everything in twisting streams of soft light is open, but veiled by a fragile curtain that doesn't move.

Through that curtain, through the intricate map of cracks in the cold glass, I see the night sky.

It's dark and opaque but still bright, and somehow the stars still flicker and dance across the horizon.

Surely, this sky is the same as the one I see in my waking world.

Surely, this sky will embrace me.

Yo tengo recuerdos. Mis recuerdos.