Hydrangea
Quite an entertaining piece or pieces I’d say. As I broken down, both feet submerged in despair. Just a fleeting moment of this cold room… I felt warm.
A breath.
Just a breath. A warm long-lasting sigh of tiredness. A haze of the untidied desk, documents, calculator, cash, old battery, zipper-bag, food bills, and trash. They are ugly. Together they are but symbol of failure. To me. And to everyone else.
The warmth of that touch — comforting — was no one else but my bare skin. Reminded me of that summer, when reeds danced on the cool wind, when moments last eternity, and when her smile always spark every time I glanced with empty head.
I wish to shed tears when there is nothing left but dryness, like the tip of that fountain pen. It is as broken the one who threw it.
*sniffle
*inaudible chuckle
The toxicating past… As if she was here in the same room. As if I fell asleep under my blanket as I hid my face inside my palms.
The damped scent of hydrangea after rain — I recognize it — even with the slightest air through the tightened trachea and deflated lungs.
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The beautiful toxicator.
I’ve never missed you, yet I suffered the refusal of forgetting your very existence, Hydrangea.
The heart stopped for a whole second but longer.
…
My head jolted.
My lips and tongue tasted the salty irony.
The warmth ceased and remained only colder.
Burning in the afternoon light, was way subtler for bystanders.
But of course it couldn’t be anything but the personality too broken, voice too scrapping, words too venomous, body too short, and the soul too worthless.
