Ash by Shereen

Posted on March 8, 2014 by

0


Dear,
Remember the café around the corner of First and Fifth?
Remember how we made up stories about people’s lives, while we drank up dozens of coffee cups?
The man sinking into piles of paper lost his wife to Azrael, and his job to vulnerability, and is looking for something that would fill him up on the inside.
The lonely lady, who sat alone at an empty table, lost the love of her life during war; she can’t seem to fathom the idea of his absence because she still drinks as though he were still there..
The old man reminiscing the life he spent with his wife, and how wearing it is to always feel like drowning without her presence.
The suicidal girl whose father cheats on her mother as the rest of the world abandons her.
How cruel were we back then for giving strangers such somber lives..
I told you that you’re a painter and you said that I am a writer.
Now, I’m sitting in the same café with the same people, drinking the same bittersweet, black coffee, while you’re somewhere around the globe, healing.
And I’m stuck here, painfully thinking about you.
And writing.. to you.
For some reason, I think your paintings have always been you.
Your paintings were compassionately cathartic.
Now, they’re ashes. You’re ashes– leftovers of burnt pasts.
And love, remember the types of ashes we talked about?
The ones conceived after cremation, the sort from my father’s frugal cigarettes and lavish cigars, and the type at a fireplace during midwinter?
You’re the eventuality of your burnt past and promises.
And all types of ashes fade away, as nonchalantly as you did.
One moment you’re here, with me; and the next you’re with everyone, but me.
And it only annihilates my heart to say that I’ve known.
Ever since your palpable, yet worn-out, smile looked like martyrs shot down at the inauguration of a great war.
And your hand’s grip felt like cold corpses awaiting burial.
And how your voice sounded like despondent music, the last time you called at 3 a.m. just to say you loved me.
You’re not here; and this letter was supposed to read ‘I miss you’, but I guess you prevaricated about me being a writer, and maybe you lied about loving me too.
So maybe this dreadful omission is why I’ll never be a writer.

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