It is late,
and it is redundant
for rain to fall on the sea.
We are broken,
worn out, and unsure
of our own identity,
while
a particle of your soul
is curious.
A splinter that pierces
your worn-out body,
my insomnia
and my fatigue,
and these hands
that can no longer
touch you.
A fracture at the origin,
a denial of memory,
an inheritance fading away
to the rhythm of the night,
in the mist of this beach.
A Monday nihilism,
as I hold
your love letters
and tear them into pieces,
tiny and fragile,
only to, senselessly,
put them back together
with adhesive tape.
Wounds that do not heal,
wounds that seep in,
wounds that are wept over,
like this rain,
delicate and redundant,
over the sea.
