Nights aren't that quiet lately. I can still hear the agony in her voice, slumbering somewhere in my mind. It surfaces now and then. The faint hum of tiny droplets pouring down on the tin covered shops, echoing of emptiness and desolation, carve out a sliver of my attention for itself. I grab my glasses and cast a languid gaze on that street light. It illuminates several creatures, skirting around in a dance with strings of water carefully dictating the fluidity of their motions. I hush her down to a sweet orgasmic sound.
It's harder to bear the pen with a religious zeal these days. It rests atop my desk along with a myriad of objects. In time, one realises the ease with which you can let go. To screen the emotions tugging constantly at the back of your mind with the thick odour of alcohol escaping from your mouth. No wonder it fails miserably. We always end up as a mess.
It's inherent to cast illusions unto yourself. An illusion to burn away the papery leaves painted with a hue of sadness. An illusion to cast aside the echoes of utter loneliness. An illusion to fill that empty vase with love gushing out from the innumerable cracks. Cast me unto yourself. Cast me away. Like that fresh laden drop of dew that shines brilliantly under the warmth of a morning sun but gets scorched by it's constant touch. It's hard to smile in the face of abyss, yet sometimes it feels like that last piece of puzzle settling in for a displeasing yet promised picture. I'd smile. She'd feel the last brush of my hand on her cheeks and know. Darling, we're low on time.