“Why does it have to be us? ” I asked to the empty hallway.
Silent permeated after echoes, as if the peace after the destruction created by a bomb dropped by. Nothing remained but obscurity of death.
Slow, and deep, I sighed twice.
Nothing answered. Or perhaps it was the wrong place to ask questions. How can God hear a prayer when the person is in hell? How can I have an answer when I asked no-one but the air?
“Why does it have to be us?” I said it again, as if a beggar in the street, palm open, without saying a word.
Why does it have to be us to cross paths in this endless crossroad and never again meet?
Why does it have to be us to share our favorite songs and hate them after when everything about us ended?
Why does it have to be you that I would love and would lose after?
The line of the beggar’s palm carries no letter nor word that says “in need.” But the gesture itself puts things to mean everything.
After you left that night, I took two cigarettes out my pocket and dragged them to the air. The same air I am inhabiting now. Toxic yet it keeps me still alive.
The calm after the slam of the door reminded me of the numb after the cut.
After you hate the loud you will find it in the crevices of deafening mute.
Once words become redundant, they lose their meanings.
So instead of asking why does it have to be us, I say with an unlocked door, waiting for a creak, “Come home when you find one.”
