I always thought I would start with a sigh and it would take off from there. I thought you would create yourself. I thought it would bleed from me on a sunny monday morning. You would argue about my choice of weather had you been here today. It has to be a sunny monday morning. A cold winter night? Not a chance. All of those are wasted away in your oversized sweat-shirt reading books I dont like. Why dont I stop reading? Because they are your books. Even a sliver of hope of finding a dry, yellowing tear drop staining the pages of grief is enough to pull me through those nights of dying moons and ashen dreams. Now I doubt my choice of words. Were such nights wasted afterall?
A gloomy saturday evening while raindrops race eachother down the window glass, perhaps? The words would wash away. Do you remember how you would drag me outside to get drenched? You wanted to shoo away my childhood fear of getting lice in my hair from playing in the rain. I have overcome most fears now. And those days are, rightfully, spent walking on wet grass. Am I secretly clinging on to the idea that someday you will see me braving the let down of sad clouds and be proud of how “grown up” I am?
It has to be a sunny monday morning.
And it is.
It has been 4 years to that day.
Your voice on the other end of the phone. Calculated. Each pause exactly where it should be. Each word just where it belongs. Not a break less nor a sound more. As if you were reading from a script you’ve mastered over frequent recitals. Yet so fresh. As if the words were uttered for the very first time. Like the laughter of a newborn. Unheard of. Like the tray after tray and batch after batch of muffins you would bake when things seemed squally in your head. Each one perfect but not same as another.
As opposed to what?
Someone called me. The smell of jasmine in a bottle carelessly left uncapped in the wind, Wafting without a direction. The last drop of juice left inside the carton, struggling to be let out but never trying hard enough. The two words stitched on to the end of a sentence, not necessary but changing the meaning irreversibly.
Not a perfect match. But not half bad either. If we ever spoke of such matters you’d laugh it off with the same words each time. “Your father has a lot money and I, a decent brain. Think of things we can do with that. Could a match get any more perfect?” Gullible as I am, I would accept that you loved me for my father’s fortune, albeit momentarily.
And today, you changed my mind again. The ease with which I expected this transition turned to be a struggle. An unbearable, excruciatingly painful process.
Something on the television, as I aimlessly flicked its channels, reminded me of that song you used to sing to me on the phone. But the song did not start playing in my head. I could not even remember the lyrics. Or what the song was about. Was it a sad song? But why would you sing a sad song to me? When I could not hear you singing it into my ears, my fingers started shaking. This could not be. I panicked. How could I forget your voice? How could I not imagine you singing to me instantaneously, at will? A few hours and a lot of struggle later I found the original song on the internet. I heard the entire track for the very first time. And it just did not sound right. You were supposed to be singing it. Not with all those fancy instruments playing in the background. Only the bleak sound of your guitar streaming in through the phone. And your voice. Your voice. You. And you singing every single word like you meant it. You made it seem that the song was written by you for me and could never be sung to another. But here he was. This strange man singing your song, our song, to the entire world. It is just not right.
I can bear standing alone in the rain. Wet from head to toe.
I can suffer cold winter nights and live through gloomy autumn afternoons. Alone and suffocating myself in your essence.
But this. This I am not far enough to brave.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. Or the week, month, year after that. Never.
What else can I do?
I need you to be with me. And years of waiting tell me that you just wont come back.
I pull the trigger and wait till you bleed from me.