Our tumultuous histories take the form of
long paths of lineage carried from our heads
clinging to our necks, swinging down our spines
and continuing like chains
that tie us to marriages of convenience.
The woman. The man.
The bodies with historical and cultural connotations.
The ignorant testaments to civilisations.
The tinged in colours, filled in colours,
drowning in colours, shapes and stories
that happen to merge because we…fall in love.
And somewhere, autonomous figures emerge
that are not afraid to touch…
something beyond them, that seems to be beyond
the both of us.
Autonomous, in the presence of a flickering emotion
towards memories embedded in seasons
unfixed to the months they have been assigned
or my arms you spent last summer in
lost of words to give names to things of substance.
Moving beyond holding hands with hands
whose palm surfaces are the same as yours
because you were told that your life-lines
would press together when you grip.
Teach me something different.
Like how there isn’t any recognition
of the way that you like the way
when they have colourless beliefs.
With faces painted instead in smiles
and sentiments of something bigger
than representing the final results
of which of our races
were the fittest to survive.
But I have survived, safe now
in the proven fact that I can stand by you
not simply just without consciousness of gender
but with the knowledge
that our colours are the percentage of us
which can be dismissed in the wreckage of humanity
as the parts that burn away.
But beyond the ashes of finished flesh
the soul still dwells into the cross-over of life.
Like my soul
continuing to lie side-by-your-side
on a patch of summer grass
beside the debris
having survived to see
the aftermath of destruction.
And now all we have left
is to pull molecules out of one another
and wipe away our genetic makeup
along with the last remnants of nationalism
and racial determinism
just like plucking away
the frivolous petals of daisies
that will not decide
if I love you
or I love you not.