To my old friend in japan

A part of me believed in the fiction of August 25

                And hated you for breaking it.

A part of me valued your presence,

                And hated me for degrading it.

I still look upon the fingers worn

                                                From my pleasures

                                From my pressures

From the wrath of my imagination

And in their dreams rests the contours of your face

I awkwardly grasped underneath

                The sky that still binds us together.

I do not have the right to call you a friend

After leaving you when the world had abandoned you.

The lies you told me refuse to hold together

                                                The lie I have of you

                                And the truth of who you are

                Of how you have grown

                Of how you have changed

                                And of how you kept on lying,

                                Tolerating me

                To prevent my world from breaking apart.

And it forever broke when my words

Forced that final crack on yours.

                                                                “I will never speak to you again.”

What I know of you is a fiction

Made from a body I know is real

                                                And which tried not to forget

                                                The promise of worlds

                                That both of us used to build.

But how long do we have to spend

To forgive ourselves for our sins

                                Perhaps it is a living body

                                We have murdered with our fiction

                And we will die stained with its blood.

And if we ever get to look each other in the eye

Do we throw it all away,

                Or do we hold on to the cracks,

                That lash our souls till God knows when.

                                                If ever there is a God.

Perhaps if I get to step into your door,

Maybe it is enough I know you still live

To give me liberty to listen to your stories

For mine are an abomination

They are the monsters

That drown all those close to me

                                                To submission.

And with your weaving of lying and telling

I may be humbled

To forgetting.

These are fragments of a true story I couldn’t yet reconcile with until that fateful moment comes and I could meet him in the eye. And I could only do so in the most unlikely of circumstances, since we are already countries apart.

Image Citation here.

Deviantart Artist: ineedchemicalx. Artist profile here.


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