corkboards

We pin these notes on the wall; this little wall
of some queer material: porous but firm,
soft yet clingy, like us

when we bravely paraded the barren streets
on ungodly hours and screamed at the night
for lost loves—evasive, incomprehensible, or non-existent—
for you and me, that seemed to be fixed

within the frame of our separate fears.
(Actually, it is not just a little wall

but a board made of cork granules
bunched, compressed, packed and then baked in a process
only time knows when it shapes into a form we could all love

to see, to touch, and to feel.)
As we pierce these pieces of papers
filled with intentions, desires, or even long-kept admonitions
on this board that welcomes the penetration

of the tiny metal spears, we experience a departure,

a sudden suspension of remoteness
that we would stare at the board

—while the spaces slowly flee from existence,
gradually covered by our notes we leave for the taking—
and be enveloped in this silence we all dread.

(for someone who pleads to bear this all)