That dimpled cheek you showed me
when you felt like death had arrived—
why didn't you kill me,
leave me,
abandon me?
The cry of pain morphed into a phantom
in my imagination,
and then faded into a smile—
why did I choose blindness?
Would you be honest
if I ask you—
how much I contributed in setting you aflame?
Why didn't you tell me
how much of ashes I actually was?
What is more sad:
that I couldn't save you;
or that you thought
I wasn't yours enough to save you?
Greens of plains and whites of night sky,
all your gift to me.
Why couldn't I gift you a hand?