I am the one holding the lit match.
And I am the one burning. And
I like that the fire is kind enough
to leave me a body in another form.
And I am the one pouring the
water of my eyes to quench the fire.
To soak the weight of my heavy heart.
Because, I do not want to light like
a feather, vulnerable to soft winds
of hope. I just want to be light
enough to fall without a fracture.
Lit enough to drama through the
night in the company of my shadow.
All my dead are after me because, I carry
memories of them in the depth of my
head. One summer, grandpa descended
as a wet tendon of rain on the roof,
his gait pattern pattering so loudly, I began
to shiver. I have mourned a lot of things
because my father mourned them. The
truth is, nothing ever comes to pass,
everything comes to be remembered. The
past has a place in the future. And maybe
this poem is about the past and the future.
I am the one holding the lit match.
And I am the one burning. And
I like that the fire is kind enough
to leave me a body in another form.
The Tributary 