I look out the window, press my nose against the cold window pane. The repulsion seems to break the numbness, if only for a second. The sky has broken and fallen apart, just like those dreams of you and me. I think you must have swallowed the stars as they trickled like gold paint, for there are none now. I look at it again. Oh my, the sky isn’t blue anymore! It’s black. Like the black of your eyelashes, the black of your hair, and unfortunately, the black of your heart, which occurred to me three days ago, over a seven lettered ‘Goodbye!’ flashing on my screen.
Curse you for leaving these signs which now show up every now and then, flashing in the back of my mind like neon lights at an empty bar, and this drives me insane. I repeat, the sky has fallen apart, but I don’t see blue shards scattered on the grass, or on the peaks of the distant mountains. Where did they go? Like the broken pieces of the soul, I hope they escaped to someplace not so miserable. It had rained bullets the other day, striking empty hearts of clear blood like raindrops from the sky. I still crave the meeting of blood and sensibility. Alas, this is impossible in the context of you. Love stays, but sensibility refuses to make an appearance whenever your face embellishes my mind.
26… 78… 400… Thank God I counted the seconds of togetherness. It makes it seem perhaps you were mine, for a certain sense of infinity and not for a mere month.
Thank God I counted the seconds, and not the eyelashes or the freckles on your cheeks. (I must confess, I am a horrible liar. Four freckles, ten lashes on the right, and fifteen on the other.)
As I write, bits of you get caught up in the loops of my ‘O’s and the ends of my ‘K’s. You have done well, if this is what you hoped for. There is not a minute that your name doesn’t long to linger out of the cage I’ve built for it in my lungs, and my hands itch to feel your skin; you’ve driven me insane, made me irrational, the words you once said are screaming and screaming in my mind, like the screech of a chalk on a slate-board.
The pain doesn’t seem to subside. Cocaine didn’t help. I believe, any sort of drug lies in the hands of my very own destroyer. You should’ve just picked up a gun and shot me. I think that would have been more bearable.
-Rushali Daryani | Edited by Soumya Chakraborty