Passing
love & time
0430.2025
I. Burial
How does one bury a heart
and still love?
Maybe not out of grace—
but habit.
Maybe not out of hope—
but because even the dying
still feed the flame until its eaten,
But I can’t.
I want to quiet it now.
The voice,
the longing,
the instinct to reach—
I want it still.
Not healed.
I want nothing.
Let the fire go cold.
Let the sky press its weight.
Let it crack - let it break.
I’ve carried enough.
I spoke plainly and no one stayed.
I offered truth and was called a threat.
I loved like a lantern
and burned the loves
who preferred dark rooms.
In the end they ate me,
leaving ideologies meaningless—
let me leave my hope in
the things I make.
Let my heart be unearthed by those
who walk through the world
with enough love for us all —
don’t let my life and its work
be for nothing.
O! Distant moon and stars!!
Breeze that was so soothing —
once the jasmin scent upon your wings
filled my head-
how come you don’t kiss me!?
Wind with your sad moan,
I felt less alone and softened
by the gentle songs of birds
that flew from your mouth -
why don’t you carry your words
home to me any longer!?
Why do you reveal yourselves to me,
Then forsake this life who sees you?
There is no victory in this.
No clarity.
No transcendence.
It simply is:
that I have nothing left to give,
and no hands left to hold.
I loved.
II. Cessation
I don’t want to care, but do
To this degree—
it’s a whisper from a voice
that won’t die.
Even now,
with my hands emptied of meaning,
I still ache for someone to take what’s left.
But they never did.
Not the mother.
Not the father.
Not the ones who said love
but meant obedience.
Not the one I waited for
while breaking into smaller pieces
just to be easier to hold.
I am not rising.
I am not enduring.
I am just—
stopping.
And that, too, is a kind of prayer.
Let them forget me.
Let the petals fall on nothing.
They don’t beg—
they quietly sigh one last time,
then die into their unraveling.
Let the art be unseen,
Let the love be unread,
nobody ever heard me.
Let the fire end without metaphor.
I loved.
III. The Leaving
Sometimes I have died.
Not just once—
but in ways that leave no wound,
the proof of life’s absence
was my surviving
just to try and fix what
was born beautiful inside me,
to be colder,
harder,
less feeling.
I once touched the stars,
believing they were mine to hold.
I reached so far into the light
I forgot my hands were burning.
But even that was better than
the cold of being untouched,
even it was better than having hands
that bloomed into worthlessness.
There is no fear left
for what meets my life now.
The ache has made a home in me,
and I have stopped evicting it.
So I shut my door closed—
gently, without ceremony—
for this stint,
for this lifetime,
for however long the silence requires.
Maybe I cannot settle myself here.
Maybe I was not made
for the soil and the circle,
for the open-mouthed hunger
of a world that bites what bleeds.
Maybe gravity always felt foreign.
The earth has never held me right.
And walking it now—
feels unwelcome,
I am a trespasser in a dream
where I was never invited to wake.
I loved.
m.c.f.
