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| by Valencia Willianto |
TW: Death.
One day I will die
and I will sing every song
the bush hides; blue, white, and purple
birds will fly out. The fire cracklings—you barely see
but hear the sound. A cello play
by a half naked girl. Others hold
each others’ hand on an effortless spin.
A kid stretches his legs to the south,
but his moon-shaped-eyes
on an old man smiling to his wife on a garden bench,
and one stroke of grey hair means to breathe.
I will send the three year old baby laughing
to every breath of air, and you can now live
eyes closed and fly. Darling, nothing matters more
like holding a hand, and waves are ripples that’s never
goodbye. I love you. Don’t grieve for me
down the yards. The sun is beginning to set
itself like morning light. Quiet birds are in circled flight.
I’m not there for you to weep, but heaven is for everyone
to live. The world’s a little green and blue,
but some hearts like yours
can be some others;
unfolding telegrams that needs to be unfolded.
A home for everyone that sits in silence
and corners. Close your eyes.
But make sure to open them,
right after the closing door.
Image Credit: ©Pinterest
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VALENCIA WILIANTO is a Poet and a B.Sc. Psychology graduate. Her work can also be found in Millennial Pulp Literary Magazine, Amphora Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications. Her Poetry newsletter can be found at valenciawilianto.substack.com. You can also find her on social media, @PoetryOfHvaw.
