I have a closet filled up to the brim
with things I have collected from the world
card board boxes
pleated skirts that reek
of sunflowers and summer sun.
Lipsticks and lip glosses
soft as the pastel skies as they
carry the aftertaste of all the
faces I have come across in life,
whose names are tangled in my tongue
like ancient languages.
And finally, a broken mirror where
I could see only half of my
reflection, bent before my fading
eyes, the images of the ones I
barely know and the ones I
shall never forget.
One day, when home is ready
I will place my entire possessions under
the shades of a sycamore tree, where they
can harbor all my memories and
return them to the ground, like ashes.
Then I will douse myself with petrol
and light a match, it will flicker.
I will light again—this time, the wind shall
blow the candle—gently, like kissing away
my solitary life with a farewell, farewell.
And finally, a flame
my wild forest fire.
What a spectacle to watch her burn:
no longer human, no longer remembering.