I wdnt knw it if it came in a snow ball and hit me square on my face, in the middle of blustering december. I wdnt knw how to get by the nights where the words on my novel's pages suddenly turn blurry and the spilt drop of water announces the oncoming tears. I wdnt even recognise you now, after all this time, even though I'm sure the play of shadows of your face will still be as captivating as it once was. Recognizable is one thng only: this dropped stomach, emptied hollowness tht surrounds the pit of my being, some where windowless, when I'm generally sitting alone, fiddling with my mobile, texting random people whose calls went unanswered eons ago. That, my boved, is when I'd give up all, ALL, just to get rid of it. Of the scent tht surrounds me at odd moments and lingers somewhere just enough far off for me to never fully inhale it. I wud giv all to get rid of this bondage, where living means less than the material at hand.
I wonder, if I suddenly called out your name one day, will u appear infront of me? Or will I be hauled to some far off asylum, where everyone will mourn the death of my existance?
