The Perfect Art
“The art of letting go,” they said.
“The curse of losing too,” I screeched.
A sight of a body that no longer worked,
a set of snaky, sullen eyes fluttered shut -open no more,
a trace of trembling lips, smiling before the storm.
He said everything is not blurry before going black;
the old hackneyed phrase was wrong after all.
He whispered I was clear as crystal, hands wavering over.
“It’s okay, it’s more than okay, darling it’s exquisite.”
“Maybe this is how God felt when His tiny humans started to crawl.”
To him it’s an art, for me it’s an arch;
the art of creation, the arch towards an alteration.
A creation he’s forever been working for, but life is the cost;
an alteration I’ve never asked for, but a liberation at its best.
His art is my arch, his death is my art, his art is mine, his art is me.
I don’t have to run from him anymore, I freed myself;
no longer confined to the crimson paranoia, I released me.
I charged at him I thought without charge so I’d be free of charge.
But at the last blow his zest pierced into my will;
life is finally free yet head is shackled by a bracelet of skeleton remains.
Suddenly there’s a desperation for every unwanted presence,
importance beyond those who believed I was trapped.
The enthusiasm of getting rid of him turned into anguish;
I rest not assured but mortified -I can’t do this without him.
Then the snaky sullen eyes quietly smiled upon me, wound-free but bloodstained.
He’s a doctor after all.
(Inspired by Strangers From Hell’s Yoon Jongwoo and Seo Moonjo.)
