The floor, I Sit on the floor of what used to be our playground, having a bottle of what used to be our companion and the witness of our times; the good and the bad, dimming the light as you liked it, dimming the light as I loathed it, the light as we perceived it.

The door, It has been a while since you went out this door with no return, it has been a while that I am trying to comprehend what this space has become.

The old lamp we once bought on that rainy night starts to flicker, my heart starts to pricker in sync with its cries for help, both refusing to be, now that we are not.

The mirror, I stand up to check the reflection of what is left of me. I and you made the us, now there is no you, no us and I can’t relate to the leftover staring directly at me, I don’t feel comfortable in front of vacant eyes  and vacuity is all I can ponder of this mass in front of me, in the mirror.

The wine glass, I smash it over that old wooden table, hold the remnants of the glass and draw the first line on my face. There I was standing in front of a suggestive medium that tells me every day what to see in me, and what  they see in me, suggestive I say as I never believed it.

 Seeing warm blood pumping itself into a perfectly constructed line, flowing over my skin, I remember the taste of your blood and how it tasted different than mine, I remember the taste of my blood and how it smelled like you, I remember the taste of our blood on your tongue. Ravishing.

I stand still. My face is turning to red covered in my own  blood dripping on where you used to touch me on what they didn’t see, where I used to touch you on what they didn’t know, where we used to touch them on what they didn’t feel.

Tingling was the first time our hands met, tingling was the first time our cheeks came closer, tingling was the first time our breath became one, tingling as my blood seeped into my beard.

I touch my face but there is nothing to touch, Liberated. An urge to dig deeper to remove you of myself, remove parts you’ve touched, films I’ve made up and a cover they’ve put on me.

I hold my beard with my bare hands, strip off a layer you’ve kissed, another they have dissed and the one I’ve always wanted dismissed.

The voices in my head start debating what I shall do next, voices I’ve always known while the silence I’ve always longed for, was recruiting at the corner waiting to thrive.

The old lamp we bought on this rainy night went black.


One thought on “Flickers

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