As I opened the door, a chilly wind blew. Coming from the other side of the open window, it smelled of a million memories, nostalgia, spring, and perhaps of you!?
An abandoned book lay on the table. A cup of finished coffee. A couple of cut spikes of a beautiful dying rose.
It was mysterious, for sure, but your enigmatic nature had become familiar to me by now. I resisted the urge to ask. Poetry isn’t supposed to make sense, and neither were you.
You had your fingers locked in mine, like a child, scared, grasping her mother’s hand. Your hand radiated the purest form of love. And oh, dear, love emanated heat, which explained the sweat on my palm.
I could feel your pulse through that tiny vein in your pinky. It disrupted my heart’s rhythm, but why the pinky, I pondered…
Your mere heart made me unstable, how will I ever be able to handle your warm breath on my neck?
They were scattered all around, those devils, they had two shelves, yet, they were still ready to devour another one. I took a whiff and realized that they smelled of you, and perhaps, you of them.
For the first time ever, I envied them. Weren’t those little bastards the luckiest to be so close to your heart? Those devilish collections of riddles, of words, and poetry, they got to be in your lap, and lay on your chest. They got all your attention. Yes, I envied them, I envied those books and got jealous of them.
We danced. We danced in your room or library I don’t know what to call it, whatever, I’ll call it your home. We swayed rhythmically, eyes locked, becoming one, until hell broke. I was expecting it. I saw it coming.
Another wind blew, perhaps from hell this time. It burned my skin, and woke me up, again…
— from the archives…
