I Buried My Yesterday in the Sky

I buried my yesterday in the sky
because the ground had already
forgotten how to keep secrets.

By morning,
the clouds were carrying pieces of it,
your laugh in one corner,
my unfinished goodbye in another,
and somewhere between them
a photograph that refused to remember our faces.

I went looking for you
inside the mouth of a clock.

The hands were chewing slowly,
minute after minute,
turning everything we were
into something I could no longer pronounce.

Even the moon looked tired.

It lowered itself into my window
and asked why I kept leaving
your side of the bed untouched.

I told it,
“I am waiting for someone
who already became a memory.”

The moon said nothing.

It simply cracked.

Seven silver pieces fell onto my floor,
and every piece showed me
a different version of you leaving.

In one,
you disappeared into the rain.

In another,
you became a bird
and forgot my name.

In the last one,
you stayed.

That was the cruelest one.

I woke before dawn
with your absence sitting on my chest
like a small, sleeping animal.

I didn't move.

I was afraid
it would wake up
and become the truth.

So I stayed there,
listening to the darkness breathe,

while somewhere outside,

the sun rose without asking me
if I was ready
to live another day
without you.