There is an old crumpled page under the bedsheet, something he left as a token after we spent the sunlit mornings holding each other close, cocooned in our truth. I never imagined the reality to be so blinding and unrelenting, like today. When I held the yellowed paper in my hand, I felt the slow recurring pain cripple my senses. I could not even hold the tears, for it was so jarring, this tumult of loss and the deadening sense of the present.
This afternoon brightened further, as I sat in silence, wielding the mind's energies towards a dark end. I thought of the possible sickness of his mind, of the loss I had, and of the blankness that uncovered the false sense of bliss. I still felt a bit raptured, and clasped in his arms, the stolid sense of defeat shrinking the desires further.
I realised that among all the truths he told me, and the lies he withheld, there was something unnerving about the romance that only lasted till a blink, or so I thought. I could not wish him away, this place, where the erect and proud poplar looked down at this small human tragedy.
I could only think of one thing. It was already evening, and the silence grew more solemn and grave. I walked past the little patch, where a child's scrawl with white chalk was half erased by footprints. I looked at my watch. I still had some time.
I came back home, and thought of sleep. It was a fearful refuge, for I knew I would wake up in another hour or so, perspiring and anxious. I fumed at this utter helplessness, this lack of comfort. Soon, the cold numbness took over.
To be continued..
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