It wasn’t that she never learnt to talk
rather, talking was too mundane for her mustard hair
and ocean eyes. She preferred sitting on a hill asking
the sun why she cried sometimes,

and also why father loved it when she cried. Was is true
that she cried because she wasn’t yellow enough
for her dancing love? The sun never answered. She only
smiled some days before she moved away to

illuminate some other world, some other space. Dela
would stay longer (on that cold gray stone) just so she could
converse with other friends, the pained and discombobulated
ones. She’d ask him of his desires and lusts and why the sun

never loved him the way he did. Cratered and broken, he’d
light up just to say, “Love is only in our heads.” Dela would
laugh whispering to angry air, “No, no… not in mine. Tell him,
not in mine...” Many peacock dreams and lazy

revolutions later, he’d look upon her as she cried herself
to sleep, as life told her the miserable secrets of the universe,
truths she wished she did not know. And one December night,
as the moon disappeared (after facing glorious rejection once

again), she cut her wrists and whispered to the air,
“Ain’t no need to be hateful no more.”