Belongings
We have often told ourselves that we belong to each other. You are mine. I am yours. But the truth is…
I do not belong to you.
My head belongs to the clouds and the clouds that take hold of my hair, playing with the strands and chasing my thoughts here and there. My eyes belong to the far-off endless sea, that even if I am in the middle of the scorching desert, my eyes still search for the vastness of the ocean. My nose belongs to scents that linger in the past, stirring up old memories of homemade sour stew that Mother patiently stirs inside a stainless steel casserole. My mouth and lips and tongue belong to stories and poems and lyrics and pages and pages of tales a thousand leagues long. My shoulders and arms belong to work both bidden and voluntarily taken. My back belongs to the bed where I happily retire every night (and every weekend afternoon with a book, if not your warm presence, by my side). My hips and belly, well, you know who they are for - the little one that I want to be worth being called Mother for. My legs and feet belong to the ground and dirt and sand, reminding me of where I should stand and what I should stand for.
No, not even my heart belongs to you. Because it belongs to Him all-knowing when it starts and stops to beat.
Despite of this, do not leave me and do not close yourself to loving me. Because there is one thing that I choose and want to give to you. A place where we belong with each other. A speck of sand inside an hourglass that seems insignificant now but is just about a flip of a coin away. This is where I belong with you, and you with me. And this is where I look forward to holding your hands forever … in our future.
I do not belong to you.
My head belongs to the clouds and the clouds that take hold of my hair, playing with the strands and chasing my thoughts here and there. My eyes belong to the far-off endless sea, that even if I am in the middle of the scorching desert, my eyes still search for the vastness of the ocean. My nose belongs to scents that linger in the past, stirring up old memories of homemade sour stew that Mother patiently stirs inside a stainless steel casserole. My mouth and lips and tongue belong to stories and poems and lyrics and pages and pages of tales a thousand leagues long. My shoulders and arms belong to work both bidden and voluntarily taken. My back belongs to the bed where I happily retire every night (and every weekend afternoon with a book, if not your warm presence, by my side). My hips and belly, well, you know who they are for - the little one that I want to be worth being called Mother for. My legs and feet belong to the ground and dirt and sand, reminding me of where I should stand and what I should stand for.
No, not even my heart belongs to you. Because it belongs to Him all-knowing when it starts and stops to beat.
Despite of this, do not leave me and do not close yourself to loving me. Because there is one thing that I choose and want to give to you. A place where we belong with each other. A speck of sand inside an hourglass that seems insignificant now but is just about a flip of a coin away. This is where I belong with you, and you with me. And this is where I look forward to holding your hands forever … in our future.