“untitled”

Ikera Olandesca

Cagayan de Oro City, Philippines

Each day without you makes my spine wilt
Into crumpled paper, our words scribbled
Across the front and back in black ink,
Boldened, underlined, rewritten, as if belief can
Help people keep promises. But to say
I’m coming home is never the same
As arriving. To circle a date on the calendar
Is never the same as living to see it.
If someone kept a record of my life in a book,
Every paragraph with you in it would be highlighted. Every
Sentence, annotated. Every leaf, folded in half so I could keep
Coming back to it. If tomorrow was made of empty
Pages, your absence has ripped them all out.
Now, all that remains is the broken
White thread, the edges of torn paper,
And the fading first words
Of lines you were supposed to say.

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