soft ruins

i came from a faraway city, where my childhood unfolded inside a poor but warm little house, where every meal was served with three dishes, where my father’s voice was always soft enough to hear, and where the windows always opened to a gentle kind of sunlight. once, i thought i would grow up there, fall in love there, and someday die there too.

life was about music playing from cheap speakers, laughter breaking open in the middle of the night, foolish jokes, and unnamed feelings for a few people who only had enough time to pass through my life before disappearing.

sometimes, some of them came back to me. they returned with neatly ironed shirts, unfamiliar perfume, and eyes that had finally learned how to cherish something. they spoke gently, carefully. they asked if i still wrote, if i still dreamed, if i could still love anyone again. i only smiled. no one really needed the honest answer then.

the city outside was always spinning. people talked about contracts, stocks, election campaigns, then violence, then the dollar exchange rate. all i wanted were small, meaningless stories, laughter loud enough to sound like fireworks, and the sudden craving for a cold leftover meal with boiled pork and good fish sauce.

but life spares no one. it comes knocking on every door, steals the soft shell of innocence, and throws us onto the very roads we once swore we would never have to walk.

and now, i am here, at the crossroads of one of those roads, empty-handed, restless, and still holding the memory of that house, like a beautiful dream broken in two.