This is a queer poem, but you wouldn’t know, because a copy of my original self is halfway gone from home. I say home like it is only in my body, like I am the only container that can house his wants. I cradle this half-written copied poem of an authentic elegy. A song of tears. on my chest, as if it is close to my heart once again. As if the already kayaked memories would walk upon themselves to find their home again in me.
I crest into the clouds, head light, because he taught me how. A song of tears is what I hear the Angels sing. An aubade instead. Confused an already weary soul. Looking for equilibrium from the waves of the sea. Cold hands cover my sadness only to strip it naked again, cold and unconscious. I would have loved that I was only naked in your arms, under your streamlined shape. Handling hardness like it may be the softest thing. An aubade instead. Because it has been said that half-truths are only an extension of lies with proof. And Angels sing only the truth, extending their voice into the crevices where washed-ashore-by-grief souls like me hide from the ocean again. A boy is an ocean, which to say I have been describing a boy like he is everywhere, because he is everywhere, because my sadness always sings a verse for him in every of my elegies.
I acknowledge every piece of moment we had. I acknowledge that I was learning how to walk on the sea with my eyes closed. With a seed held tightly in my palms – which I would later learn to call faith. I acknowledge my ineptitude too, but I would not tell you that I am trying hard to overcome it because that would be what is expected. But I acknowledge it, because the ocean is liquid happiness, and I can’t think of a space for me to think of it over in my head. This is poor, I know. So do you. I might have even diverged from original waters by kayaking into unknown languages spoken by men. This is to say people never acknowledge the word “queer” any more which is also to say because it now means the word “abomination”.
Last night, I heard on the news that a majority
of heartbreak refugees end up drowning
within themselves. I know this is true
because we all have a drop of him
within us. Us boys, who are not supposed
to hold anything that resembles us in our
male body. If I would still try to end my
halfway written elegy like this, I would
write about Scarecrows. I mean girls.