Nothing Is More Perfect Than This Chaos
Nothing Is More Perfect Than This Chaos
Nothing is better than this blooming wound,
thinking of memories like treasures that ache,
reminiscence—not to repair what was ruined behind,
but to bless the chaos that saved us in the storm's wake.
Nothing is better, and you deserve not to disappear,
girl, I won't hold grudges in my chest like cold stars,
I don't want to ignite dead fires in old ash here,
I know I said poison-words that shouldn't be—I forgive you and you forgive my scars.
Do you still remember when I swore the verses were only for you,
and I cursed forever that no one else would be in me?
then I wrote poems for other girls who passed like smoke through,
I'm sorry—my promises were castles of ash, you see.
Do you still remember how I hated your talk, your walk, your core?
do you still remember how you said I was the most annoying fool?
but now we laugh at the knife-words and our deaf hatred from before,
I heard you're living a lavish life—back then I had only shadows as my tool.
Just reminiscence—not to repair what's broken in the stars,
because nothing is better than these rebel traces we hold,
flux: love is hate embraced in the shattered mirror's bars,
and forgetting is the most perfect memory in the cracks untold.
You are the absent-presence, my evil benefactor true,
and I am your future past, the forgiven unforgiven still,
in the labyrinth where chaos polished us better in longing's hue,
nothing is more perfect than this sacred disappointment's thrill.
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