Sky’s Sometimes Color Pink


You own your name
More than it owns
you, Aija. The sweetest bud
that now blooms in the
middle of a wrecked
garden speaks of the
thousands of possibilities,
your hands could ever
carve and color, pink
for example. What’s in
a name? I will answer
by saying that a woman’s
greatest failure is to
have fears divorced of
final confrontation—
and this is sour, like
tamarind candies; and there
is no color pink here, of course.

Lei, you were once
the Aija, a name your childhood
friends used to call you.
You were once the Aija and
still, the Aija and the Lei
inhabiting one and the
same body of an
-daughter-sister-pet lover-
all packed as a human
person loving caramel-based
food, equal; but there is no
pink discoloration here.

Aijalonica Lei, names fade
away easily. As easy as
how our memories trick
and betray us each time
we try to recall and remember
a distant past, like the time
when you started loving
caramel. What is the
color of your memories?
Is there a pink that radiates
in your daydreams?
Your pet, Staycie—no, your
friend, Staycie, a Pomeranian is
of course not color pink;
I do not think she likes pink, either
but you love her still. There are
no dogs in heaven. Doggos themselves
represent heaven on this Earth.

Our names can never become
our soul. Our names cannot be
an extension of our soul.
But there are simple imprints that
we can pass on forever aside from these
names like: color, taste, or even
a memory of an oozing caramel.



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