“Why is the sky blue?” every child wants to ask.
And he usually responds, “The angels play a game of tag in heaven,
and one little cherub trips on a can of blue paint,
spreading it across the pallid marble floor of the sky.”
His heart, though, cannot lie: it was her love that dyes everything in
its full vibrant glory—she was the Sun of his wonderland,
seated on a throne of clouds
like the Queen that she was.
When she finally took her eternal slumber,
when she pillowed her head on the soft earth
six feet beneath the dancing fingers of grasses
and thousands of miles away from the canopy of stars,
everything transfigured from a multicolor series of snapshots
into an eerie negative filmstrip of a world he never dreamed to live in.
It was the glimpse of a purgatory, a reality
he doesn’t want to stay in, even for a millisecond.
He missed her.
He missed her kisses that tinted his mind a sweet, lovely plum,
reminiscent of how the sunup throws a cloak of colour upon the sky
after the last smudge of the night thawed in the light.
He missed her embrace that put creases in the sunbeams
that fall upon the sheets. He missed her laugh
that sweetened the blandness of that lingering feeling
when the tail end of a good dream dissolves into thin air.
He missed her I-love-you-like-I-love-the-sky-at-sunset caress.
He missed her I’m-sorry-I-won’t-hurt-you-again embrace.
He missed her I-missed-you-and-I-want-to-hit-you-for-going-away-
He missed her You-are-the-most-amazing-thing-that-happened-in-my-life hug.
He missed her I-do touch.
He missed her Please-love-someone-again-after-I’m-gone grip,
before she slept forever.
He missed her, he missed her, he missed her.
Thankful for the sting, thankful for the venom of false waiting,
he let the blade’s lips graze the soft, beating vein beneath his translucence.
In fairytales, he believed then;
to lie with his Princess, to sleep beside his Sun,
and to let the ghosts of their hearts merge again.
And they lived—beyond death—happily ever after.
©Airiz Casta 2011