23.7.10
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Fiction.
THE watch that she bought for me—It was showing 4 a.m. now. But I still could not sleep. I reached across the table from my bed, over that blue stuffed toy she won but dared not bring home, to the desk lamp and turned it on. The yellow light elucidated her in my room, in so many forms and facets. She was there, on the dresser, in that tube of moisturizer she had bought for me. She was in my closet, weaved and pressed into those shirts she said would look good on me. She was in that strand of hair she left on my pillow. She was the wick in that Zippo she bought me, burning for me. She was the strings on the guitar she bought for me, singing me that tune I made for her.
The room still smelt of her, a faint reminder from her perfume that rubbed on to me when we had our last, final hug.
I reached under the lamp for my spectacles, and I touched her hands that once held them for me while I washed my face. I took my phone, and I could still see her fingers move across the screen, playing a game.
I looked at our pictures one by one and wondered, at what point did that disarming smile become insincere? I read those messages again and again, and again. I failed for the umpteenth time to grasp how those lovey dovey messages we left for each other turned into heated exchanges.
But none of this is real. You are not in my room. You are not in my soul. You are not in my life anymore because you chose to leave.
What is real is that tomorrow there would be no messages waiting for me to read. No wake up call, no goodnight kisses. What is real is that tomorrow, while I sleep in and as the sun rises over the sky, the world moves on. The cogs that move the machines of society will still turn, the winds will continue to blow and the rain will continue to fall. Poverty and war would not go away, and famine and disease will still claim their victims.
And my life should go on. My heart should pump new blood, now devoid of your sweetness, acting from electrical impulses coming from my brain harbouring thoughts devoid of your camaraderie. But maybe it’s not that simple.
| hl @ 04:57 |
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