I am bound by the cartilage of winter’s eerily molded teardrops that drop once in a while as if a reminder pinning on my eyelashes saying, careful- my family’s on the way to cheer you up this dull gray morning.
As if that doesn’t deprive me of the beautiful things that I could be but didn’t choose to.
The dawn does weep Christmas wishes and I hear laughter echoing through the plain walls of my house, from miles apart; and the unmistakable giggling of over enthusiastic children.
My heart couldn’t bear anymore the rhyming of two rhythmic soul’s catapulting in each other’s calligraphic aura through rosy hues.
I draw unbroken heart shapes in the breath of ‘nature’s’ long echoing sigh on my bleary window but was easily mastered by another wave of agonizing misery of her wailings.
I lost the last heart again.
And after umpteenth effort, I stretch my sleeves hard enough to cover my finger tips listening numbly to the ripping of my heart. This sweater covering my feeble body from the desecrated cold has seen its better days. So, I ignore her protest in wanting to cover my fingers.
Somehow I feel like a mannequin stuck inside a clock; unable to move without being slapped by the needles.
And you are a parchment paper in which I have written my suicide notes as a will to the roses that have stopped whispering my name in your hands… but you give me them anyways since you can’t bear the thought of the thorn piercing into your bones, tattooing my tragedy.
Dear silence, bid me farewell to the moon where shadows don’t backbite and bicker.
Let me paint melancholy in the desolate part of the night sky and die a bluish death… so that I can smile happily believing that I just stopped becoming a story as the ink died in my veins.