All of the mountains we carried proudly on our backs,
we were only supposed to climb.
And in our journey, we often regarded love
as a measure between the point of indulgence and the point of letting go.
And I’ve been so stubborn in letting you go
I’ve held onto love with an iron grip,
even when it disintegrated within my palm.
I held on to it with my sore fever, through every blister
I never found out whether it was worth it,
holding on to it until I lost my breath.
I feared losing you
was to lose myself too.
Day
and night, I prayed
that if I did fall,
I’d fall onto softness, a woven fabric of honey, milk, forgiveness and acceptance. But you never held on tightly to me anyway.
I suppose there wasn’t a reason to hold on to me,
when losing me was the finality.