Its an itch actually. A quite old one. That I’ve been with for so long, that it has frozen into my already paralyzed roots. I sigh, today was a bad day. Those pretty ladies wearing flowery dress, oh what an irony, and with eyes full of the wasted expression of being hopelessly in love, came and took away my friends. So easy, right, plucking what you like. Humans are disasters. They do what they want to, and end up destroying their lives just with a push of a thought. But the thing is, they take us down with them too. They weave garlands of colors, painted with the brushstrokes of waxy hues of delight. They gift dew drops clinging on to these delicate rays of grains to someone they love.
But, the rise of apocalypse that races through their mind is just enough to encompass the distortion of whole life in half a universe radius. The paradox is they’ll sing about me, they sing about the heavy intoxicating sweetness oozing from the rivulets of my memory, they dance to the sound of bees clutching my body possessively. They let me spread, spread like wild in the middle of their homes, work, art, hearts. But then they take me with them too. To lie on the graves. You see, I’m a goodbye. A sober one, sometimes a cold one. A weepy one, sometimes a heartbreaking one. They’ll deform me to celebrate the strands of their hairs with the caress of my touch.
They’ll write metaphors about me, metaphors respired and assimilated from the corner of their concealed truths.
But will they ever hear me?
Will I hear myself again, making that
sound I was a reminder of, a beautiful sound of shrill joy, that evaporates any remnants of doubt and desperation?
Oh how much I hope.