A Face

If sadness truly had a face I wonder what it would look like. But if you would ask me, I think it's the dark circles under her eyes; the coffee she made at midnight as she struggle to find the words behind her agony. Though I suppose there's more to it than cold stares and staring blankly at the stars. Perhaps it was her unsteady breathing whenever I ask her if she was okay. Or the lie beneath her smiles and the untouched novel she bought last month. Maybe, just maybe, it's the fact that she no longer sing like how she used to. And if that's not it, what is a person if she refused to listen to the songs that bloomed the flowers back again? What is a man who refused to hold his guitar, his only company? Because if it's not sadness, how can a man continue to live without the beauty of art that was suppose to linger in his soul? If that's not it, how shallow sadness could be when thousand deaths were served long before someone realized it? How welcoming it was to embrace souls who have done nothing but to bleed for it? However, if sadness truly has a face, I guess, sometimes, it's best not to name it knowing I'll find mine on a tombstone with dried chrysanthemums filling the air of its forgotten scent. To me, sadness is to lie on a grave as raindrops fell to the ground where the sky held the clouds in loneliness and in peace; when birds finally knew the lines of my last elegy and as sadness itself rest with me.

📷: herbleus