My story doesn’t exist yet.
It is slowly forming like a fetus in a womb
While the death orchestra plays in my head
(bodies falling out of the ceiling)
Life sneaks out
Death wriggles in.
The story still isn’t ready
Everyone is tired of waiting.
I become part of the system.
The one that desire not being desired.
The cathartic release….
I stand at the half wall in my balcony
The wind is cold and full of sadness and intrigue.
I watch my neighbors leave for church.
Their apartment doors locked fircely
Their face painted pretty.
I’ve seen them before like this..
A week ago.
The same time, different attire
But the same face.
The same apartment door.
The wind gets colder and sadder.
And the day is drowning in intrigue.
As the cold slowly seeped into my bones,
I thought about the universe and my place in it.
I thought about you.
There is something about it, a sensitivity.
It’s like one of those machines that can detect earthquakes tons of miles away..
But the earthquake was in me.
I am not here..
I faded on the wings of yesterday
I revelled in the mirth of my past..
I was the sin that ended my day..
I faded in that expectation
Of the end..
I saw the darkness long before I saw her.
It was reveling.
Some dark and untasteful yet lovely.
I never wanted anyone more in that sleepy second.
I became ephemeral