Soon there will be a day

when I sell your name

so that I can wear my sanity 

you ripped me off.

And then Gods will admit that

they were bored of fruits 

served in brass plates

and demand the compensation

for all the acting they had to do.

The sun will stretch its legs

through the pool of a child's tears,

just like a father who can 

only spell softness

and never live it.

Clouds will forget their lines,

thunder will stammer,

and the sky will confess

it envies the silence of 

an old widow's bed.

The mirror will finally speak,

not of beauty,

but of all the names I swallowed

to keep peace in someone else’s house.

Then maybe I will admit

we were a shipwreck with no survivors,

no driftwood,

not even a gull to mourn us.

Until then,

my lentils will burn,

laughing at my ashen fingers—

mocking the woman

who knew how to build altars

but never how to leave them.

And somewhere between 

the hiss of the stove

and the crack in my lip,

you will be reborn—

not as a memory,

but as the ache 

behind unfinished songs.


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