This chair is crossed with wormwood scars. My cheeks carved deep in these dreary hours with sad eyed secretions of pain made moist.
The tears come freely but not by choice. So silent so long I’ve forgotten my voice. I suppose that the sobs are now the sole noise. Unless I then count my heartbeat so weak. One thump, endless silence, another thump as it beats. For what purpose serving does it still send the flow of the blood through the veins slack with anemic sorrow? This room is a dim place with moss on the walls. The dust ankle deep, the gloom like a pulse. My pulse, my slim heartbeat, the slight rhythm to sobs. My eyes pouring outward; this distress never stops.
We’d sit on this oak chair, she’d rest on my knee. How could I explain this frail beauty with me? What had she seen which had caused her to seek my slim hands in the walk of our eternity? I would smile in ignorance, the only true bliss. I would shudder and grow younger with each seeking kiss. I would swear that forever we could just sit like this and I’d never again know the grip of distress. Her brown hair, pulled back loosely, set a frame for her eyes. What God could I thank for making her mine? Surely not the same God who invented the time. For the time is mere countdown to eventual change. What God do I denounce for taking all my hope away?
My rotten chair feels like part of me, my legs so long numb. This air smells of sweetness so long ago come. This air smells of fragrances she’d wear as we sat. Oh fuck it, this air stinks, like vomit and shit! This air smells like struggle and it smells like regret. This air makes me choke up, my sobs miss a beat. I hate all the memories which I’m forced to breathe. Like the scent of consumption, the scent of disease. The scent, antiseptic, the smell too complete.
She would burn her soft incense as we spoke and caressed. Her skin smelled like honey, there was mint on her breath. With the windows wide open, we breathed night air as we slept. Our hours were golden, our vows strongly kept…perfect.
I cannot hope to rise in time and leave this rotten room of grime. The room was hers and she was mine. Some God took her in his own time. Well his time’s not the same as mine. Her years were barely ten and nine. Did she really have to leave? Why was I left back to grieve? This grayish moss which grows on me is more alive than I’ll ever be. She was the light I used to see and now my eyes feel blind and bleed an endless supply of tears from pain. My heart sounds, throb, again in vain.