Requiem (Transitional Chapter)
I have never left you for a moment, not even when I let go of your hand.
Through the gap between ghosts and the Creator, I imagine kissing your soft lips.
I burst open your molten chest, like unwrapping a gift that sat on my bedside table more than twenty years ago, a gift that I never opened.
Can we leave each other?
When you look down at the exposed flesh and blood, you may have pondered such questions.
If the answer is yes, will you forgive me?
Even if I walked through the rusty gates of hell, would you still smile like this, holding my heart, slowly dancing and saying you love me?
Will you always smile at me? Will you slowly leave your pain on the fabric of history, and place your pure body before my pleading eyes as I gaze upon you?
Can you do it, baby?
If I stood before you squarely, would you do that? Even if it were a figment of your imagination, would you do that?
If you were willing to pray for me, draped in a serene blue robe, you would gracefully pass through sunken ships in the deep sea, filled with beautiful fantasies, through seasons and graveyards, past low wooden stakes inscribed with my countless love words, and you would never glance at them. Like a newborn goddess at dawn and dusk, her light, dark brown curls flowing to her waist, she would pity all living beings, attentively listening to their ugly pleas, coldly refusing to offer any tenderness.
My beauty, could I be a tear on your shoulder? Could I be a handful of dust falling as you unfold your skirt? Could I win your pity?
Can I say I love you with my chapped lips, and follow you forever, until you turn back to heaven and then turn back again to look deeply at me, who is gazing at you longingly from hell?
Can I sing for you, and receive the fleeting laughter that escapes with your breath?
Can I shut out all thoughts and pretend to be asleep before you furrow your brow when you hear my declaration of love?
Will you love me? Will you?
Before the coffin of my sleeping soul, will you?
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