The Vault (a poem and prose collection)

Eight

and i see you as a lone meteor,
cosmically old,
made of an ancient stellar descent
origin unknown as hydrogen itself
making its way about to crashland in my petty world.

in awe, i watch you explode in streaks of hue,
like hundred heartbeats before my eyes
spreading across as as though lines of hope
in a dystopian world
creating myriad occupancies
in the bleak and cold evening of May.

some parts of you mingled with the moonlight
caught between the ripples of your existence
and i wonder how you dissolve into an
insignia of six-year-olds type of wishes,
dreams with an intention as the clouds kissing in a bright day
over the countryside hill,
that it almost sounded like
a setting of a fucking summer love.

but love, did you make it down here?
as wondrous as how you arrive
as unfortunate as your absence,
i asked how long does it take to be on the ground?

so the rain told me so,
with its drips like tears from the heavens,
some parts of you somersaulted
into the heart of a blackhole,
nosediving into the vacuum,
frozen in time.

but what is more heartbreaking
than knowing you died along the way,
like those wishes that didn't come true,
darling, like those dreams that dissipated
in mid-air of long-endured crisis.

and i didn't know that knowing this much
still ruins my twenty-two-year-old version.
you died
and i have to swim relentlessly
over that unsweetened truth.

you just d i e d.
i kind of wish i have enough metaphors
to make it sound less than it already is
like the way i did with how you arrived

but i don't,
and i can't.

— nana, "not even a meteorite was left of you"