tender is the night as the monsoon
blossoms at some time past three am,
like a corpse flower, and by mourning
the lambent light is perfumed by deep
lament. did you hear the cries of the
rainbirds? do you think i could fragment
the best part of my soul and ask them
carry it with them to shelter, weather the
storm and start anew? i learned to be gentle
with myself, but it’s never enough. i’d rather
asphyxiate while trying on the right words
than to simmer steadfastly in an ocean of
doubt. i'm unsure of most things, but the
thought of you is a constant. the light from
your heart, however dim, is something i
shakily swim towards – i was never taught
to swim. you're like new moonlight to
eyes anchored to the night sky. can i confess
something to you, dear reader? i never heard
the rainbirds cry tonight, it was only sweet
silence.
