He told me to listen to a song, the song that would become our future hymn and even at some point the only thing keeping us together.
Haerra, sung in Icelandic, in a sleepy voice as if in a dream. A dream made of more consonants than vowels, a dream made of lakes of tears in lonely lovers’ hearts. A dream made of intense hands grasping your face and saying ‘I hate it when you cry’ while rivers of acid run down your cheeks and burn the hands holding you together. A dream made of Sunday morning breakfast with his family, a dream made of closed eyes resting on a soft rock in front of an unfinished movie. A dream made of him and me.
Haerra, enveloping my throat in a sort of game where I am the one constantly weeping at his impulsive decisions, his imprudent behavior, like crossing the street without the thought of being run over crossing his mind.He was so reckless, I wish he lived like he was made of glass.
I wish he lived like he was a dainty piece of jewelry I could keep around my neck and that I could instinctively nestle in my palm if any kind of danger rose.
Haerra, ‘I love you’ and ‘drive safe’ meant the same thing to him, but none of them seemed to have an impact on his ways.
Haerra, slipping from my fingers now like he did one too many times, saying he had to go, saying that he had somewhere to be, leaving my open palm on a cafe table, facing the sky in a pleading kind of way, as if to cry out ‘protect him’. Allowing the raindrops to dance between the lines on my palm, as if reading my future and grieving my pre-mature loss.
Haerra, you beautiful lullaby, you remind me of death and liberty, freedom and perdition. You remind me what it’s like to feel lost and like it. You teach me what it feels like to be found. You are the view from atop a mountain I was skeptical of climbing.
Haerra, say it, repeat after me ‘I am the breath you blow on a loved one’s neck, the one you just kissed, now too sweaty to kiss again, but I am the glossy lips, red enough to fill the Desire’
Haerra, personify me, make It, something someone could love and would cherish.
Make It something so sweet, honey would drip out the black holes the letters make on a page because I want to be written down. I want to become immortal.
Haerra, you are a delight, you are everything one should wish for, everything I want to remember and sing.
You are what I want my voice to pronounce.
Haerra, a song about nature and everything beautiful about earth, everything that makes people smile like rain on Sundays, sun in winter, or even watching a child let go of their balloon and see it slither upwards with a smile on their face, broader than the horizon.
Haerra, a chant, tying us together like the knots holding up masts on windy afternoons, on our makeshift boat.
Haerra, two lovers full of hope for the future, full of sadness of having to leave each other, full of pride of each other’s accomplishment, full of love.
Haerra, two people saying goodbye at the airport, one saying ‘good luck’; the other one saying ‘see you soon’. Both mean 'stay'.
Haerra, two people hugging and kissing for the last time in months.
Haerra, him and me crying,