Perhaps, the clay, God used to mould you was
blue,
perhaps the scraps left behind
were what He used to create my eyes.
For had it not been so,
I would never have known
how tenderly my Lord creates,
how meticulously He sculpts a poem,
how the poem He has breathed into existence
inspires a soul to write a thousand more.
My Lord has moulded you into a shade
beyond the comprehension of color,
beyond the reach of language,
beyond what words could ever hope to inscribe.
Perhaps He gathered you
from the vastness of a distant ocean.
For no matter how desperately I try to hold you,
you slip between my fingers,
leaving me drenched in your absence,
hollowed by the weight of what I cannot keep.
Perhaps He moulded you
from the breeze that wanders along the shore..
enough to send a shiver down my spine,
never enough to fill my lungs.
Enough to remind me that you exist,
never enough to let me breathe you in.
And yet, I know what He made you from.
From the creation He sculpted in haste,
from the eyes He, perhaps, had meant to color
differently,
from the very depths of my own gaze.
He made you from my eyes.
From my eyes.
From the liquid clay
that spilled forth whenever I wept.
He sculpted you from the tears of my loneliness,
from the salt of my longing,
from every silent prayer
that dried upon my lips.
He made you from me—
from the hollowed chambers of my being,
from the pieces of myself
I did not know I was losing.
And still, I sit and wonder—
How?
How can something born of me
belong to a world
that will never let me call it mine?
Just reach out your hand.
Place it against my heart.
Feel how it beats blue.
How it beats only for you.
it gasps your name with every ache,
whispers it through every fracture,
and breathes it into the silence
where your presence ought to be.
I pray for you
to the very One who made you,
to the One who blessed me
with this unbearable ache,
this exquisite torment
of loving what I cannot hold.
And now, all I can do
is pray for the longing to loosen its grip,
for this ceaseless ache to find its end—
for the final stillness
of that inevitable peace
we call death.
