Ayase Okamoto. the name moves fluidly across the tongue, a soft harmony of vowels and consonants begun deep within the root of the mouth, an exhale past the teeth and back again. ebb and flow.
to us she was always aya. three letters that contained all the sweetness of heaven and agony of hell.
don't misunderstand-- she wasn't divine.
but she was, and isn't that a miracle in itself?
she was, and she felt. oh, she felt it all.
she stood on the edge of the known, delicately dipping a toe into the greater something that caressed indigo and kissed in silver star foam the stubbornly unyielding shore.
she looked like she was about to dance, balanced gracefully,
p r e c a r i o u s l y.
ballet of blood and beauty about to begin.
she extended her arms and j u m p e d,
diving deep into the infinite sea of our shared consciousness.
does she sink into the sky or float to the bottom of the sea?
i'm still not sure. but as she fell, she grabbed my hand. weaving our fingers together in a tapestry of p u l s e and attachment.
not because she was scared (though she was, i was too, we all were)
but because she understood.
she is
just like you.
YOU ARE READING
AYA
Poetryshe holds the universe tenderly in her quaking arms, but she is so lonely.
