8:31 PM

We carry our fears
like invisible tattoos
sitting underneath our very own skin,
bugging us often with
questions of
why one has to demand
of weight we ought
to wear light.

No stars would ever catch
a dying breath
ever so calm that the sweat
have been mistaken for labor;
the trees are of monsters
at night wronged
by its grace on a sunlight
unparalleled from the owl’s certainty
of how bodies become so pale
after hushing from the morning’s flashing colors,
and how it’s possible that one’s plead
could ever wound walls
from all the millions of forbidden sigh
trapped inside our lungs.

And so the night’s happening,
only to tell you that
you are one of the crickets
which presence is of no attention to spare of
but to fill the innocence of the night,

And forget the story of your cries.