Picture Credit: Hamish Weir, Unsplash
Every interaction between us from here on and my every excuse to touch your face
happens in a different pocket of reality where it is an eternal halloween in a
two-storied shotgun house.
Every interaction between us from here on and my every excuse to touch your face
happens in a different pocket of reality where it is an eternal halloween in a
two-storied shotgun house.
I am writing this at six am in the morning At the back of a nearly expired milk carton. Of late, it has dawned on me how I never got to ask you Why do you hate that patient in ward 5088 so much? Or what the view from your window is Whether a run-down bridge Or a fluorescent mulberry-lit store that Only sells maps of Cincinnati With brown borders Like the colour of your eyes.
It feels strange to think about how 2013 was over a decade ago or to think back to a period of my life where I did not overdo whatever sustenance I could get my hands on. Even if the distance between us is now a couple of floors in our freshman dorm, it feels longer than the entirety of the Pacific Ocean. And all the love I had saved up for you inside the glove compartment of my CX-30 has waned away,
A prominent trend among the urban populace and anyone’s social circle is that, in general, is how most of us care about how our potential romantic interests fit into the pre-existing narrative of our lives, among our friends, what their beliefs are, and so on.
My brother’s Omega Speedmaster is now fourteen years old. The ticking sound it makes, in my head, translates to an answering machine that keeps repeating the message “Sorry, we are not here” in a vacuum. I have always feared nostalgia melded with grief, and the wild sheep chases it sends people on.
I love that deafening hour at any party, where everyone’s eyes are akin to driving away, to a familiar place that only holds the nostalgia of what was. You can tell from the shape of their voices they are all stuck in a pain they cannot get away from.