#about giving up

When you say it like that, you make it so believable.

– And Even If Love Was Lost, Unknown Chapter –

When you say it like that, you make it so believable, I say.

I can still remember the scenery.

The sky is blue, the sunlight passes through you, and the faint shadow of summer leaves

make me think that for a moment, perhaps time had stood still

for us, for the youth within us and the youth outside of us.

The world is still young.

When you say it like that, you make it so believable, I say.

Your voice’s timbering on the canal of my ears.

The sweet sound of the rain on the tin roof.

I sit inside the house and look out –

the baked earth evaporates into these small fragments of the things I’d lost.

And in this country, you already know that the rain never stops.

On and on, the sweet sound of the rain on the tin roof

has been timbering on the canal of my ears.

When you say it like that, you make it so believable.

That we will have another life.

That we will have time to make up for it, no matter what it is.

That we will have lives.

The world is still young and honey, perhaps we were not made for it.

We were not made to last – no human is.

We were not made to stand still while time is moving on

and trampling all over us.

We were not made to endure the pains and the sufferings.

But on that very night – on the night that separation filled the air,

on the night that the rain ran the air until morning,

on the night where the songs kept playing on repeat,

on the night we learned to lean on a fragile shoulder,

when you say that we will be passing through,

that you will be here, and I will be here,

and for a thousand years,

the waves will not erase what has been carving on the sand –

Your vigor, and the night is still young.

Honey, when you say it like that –

you make it so believable.

#leave a message

I will call you back next week.

K.

I will be checking my mailbox more often.

M.

She’s a wolf.

When the moon strikes at midnight and its blue light paints a shadow of pain,

she turns into this hideous creature

moving along the shops’ window panes:

her claws leave red blood on the pavements and her hair falls down the well;

is it her blood or someone else?

And even if she knows the answer, will it make any difference?

She’s a beast.

Her heart grows as big as the old fairy tales.

Perhaps when she was born, a witch left a curse on it.

A curse that looks like a red claw mark of the wolf looking at her:

His yellow eyes still haunt her dreams.

I will call you back, he said;

I will check the message you left, he said;

She doesn’t know what to do when she hear words like that,

because the wolf always leaves in the end.

She’s the moon.

Though there are hollow abysses and craters on her face,

she still manages to ride through the waves,

and when her beauty shines – once in a while – on the full moon night,

she brings the silver ocean to his lover, the shore:

She knows that now and forever more,

there’s no love for a moon that’s a thousand hundred miles from it.

She’s a girl.

Broken and destroyed and rusty – you name it.

She wasn’t born this way, she promised you that,

but the rest is as old as time, and she never mentions it.

Of course she knows lies when she hear them, she said,

but how can one give up on hope?

And when she asks you that, you will be stunned.

You don’t know if she can distinguish truths from fiction,

or whether she sees through your facade.

You wonder what she wants: loyalty or another hurtful breakup.

Perhaps it will help your conscience when you know that

she’s been long used to both.

I will call you back, you said,

And I will check my mailbox more often, you said.

She smiles through and through, I know.

She’s a human.

In A Coffee Shop

I drank a cup of coffee

to outgrow my madness and sadness;

Never know whence they come

nor when they’ll leave.

You ask me, What’s wrong

with a little sadness?

And I say, Honey, if the human condition

means the sadness will never leave or let me be,

I refuse to be a human

or half a human.

I heard the trees’ conversation: Love is in the air.

It’s hard to believe in them though, when you see they can’t even keep

their leaves.

I look out the window of the coffee shop.

It seems the people all have their place to be,

A place to call home.

What do you consider a home? You say,

and I wanted to make a remarkable answer

to sweep you off your feet.

But your nimble fingers on the straw

and your red lipstick print fading out on it

keeps me from thinking seriously about any matter at all.

I don’t know, I say, What is a home to you anyway?

The bustling street outside keeps you occupied

and my question is thrown away in an ocean

of noise. Of life. Of you and me, being nowhere near each other

than the start of this conversation.

Will you still be here, I say, when your lipstick completely fades out?

What nonsense, you say, Of course I will be here:

After all, I just need to retouch my lipstick.

And I feel like crying then, No, it’s not like that.

But amidst the slow drizzling outside the coffee shop windows,

I find myself to always be a constant nonsense.

Never mind that, I smile, wiping off your lipstick, Put it on again,

and let’s stay for another minute.

Because you will never understand

the loneliness of being human, and it will be fine

to stay another minute

while your lips are still red.

Eyes for A Lover

Đời em đã khép đi vội vàng
Tình ta cùng lấp lối thiên đàng
Như cánh chim khuất ngàn, như cánh chim khuất ngàn

Mắt Lệ Cho Người Tình, Từ Công Phụng

On the sleepless nights and the gramophone of old age and

pains and

tears and

sufferings

keeps on pouring out these soft, sorrowful tunes into my ears,

I cry for your blue eyes.

Oh my darling, oh my darling, do you still remember,

the summer of the older days

when I caught the pair of blue eyes from your silky face

as you smiled at me like soft lace of love

spreading over a river of hate.

I say, Maybe we should be moving on.

You say, Wait, we still have time.

And that is enough, my darling, that is enough

for me to hold on,

to live,

to breathe,

to continue suffer from whatever they diagnose me with.

As I spend more days in the hospital,

the blue in your eyes grows a deeper shade of sadness and

the memory of us grows a fainter shade of love.

Eyes for my lover, I sing, I have eyes for my lover,

whose love I did not choose but rather,

was bestowed on me in raindrops of kisses and gentle caresses on skin;

whose life I borrow as a beggar on the street and as a beggar,

I don’t get to choose the life I get to pay back, somehow, some days.

What day is it, I lift a strand of hair from her brow

and tuck it behind her ear –

the hair that reflect back all the light of the sun

and the moon

and the star

and hopes.

Hush, she whispers, you don’t need to know what day it is,

she gently covers my eyes with her bony fingers.

Her nails painted pink, a shade that blooms little flowers on the tips.

Yes, I say, I don’t need to know.

She smiles at me, her gentleness falls in between

and everywhere.

Your eyes are so sad, I sing,

and we both are so sad.

I know, honey, I know.

And the next morning, she gets up,

she gets married.