She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

It was empty, that part of the faculty area apart from the tables, the afternoon light passing through the window and the ravines dividing the place.** Her spot was full of dust, past dated old calendars and dreams of its former occupant who was eaten by the ocean and drowned. Well, at least the rumor claimed.

I don’t know if it’s true, but everyone knows what the former occupant did last summer. It was about two weeks before her wedding when she ran away with her student. Both of them just disappeared from the circulation one day. During the early part of their absence, the staff and classmates assumed that the reason might have been just trivial, like a mere cough or a fever.

But time and weeks dragged on and both of them were gone. Nowhere to be found. No words were left. No notice either. Nothing. They simply disappeared, just like that. Like one day, they have decided not to exist in this conventional world anymore. Like a bubble ceasing to float.

They stayed in an island, it was said. Packed their bags with clothes, flash lights, canned goods – everything they could carry at a dead run. Then they hired a boat which carried them to their destination, but no one found out the existence of the boat. There was no trace. Not even a slight.

The island was remote, detached and unoccupied. People say they built a settlement somewhere in the area, made of woods, twigs, leaves and perhaps, love. But some says they have their tent, and it was where they dreamed their elusive dreams.

But a storm broke in the dead hour of the night, shaking their sleep. All the trees and vegetation swayed to and fro, trying to catch the unfamiliar song of the wind while avoiding the occasional bouts of the lightings.

It must have been beautiful, the entire universe in sheer panic, in the middle of the night, embracing you home.

Before they knew it the tide rose and the world quivered and the waves grew massive and rolled and crashed in that part of the island and that edge.

She wasn’t there, in her cubicle, when I arrived.

Nor did the island in its former spot. It was vacated, that part of the faculty area apart from the afternoon light passing through the window which overlooks the contour of the overlapping mountains.

I placed my bag on the table, took a pen and scribbled a note saying that I’d be back some other time. She must have been in her class but I cannot be sure.

I cannot see the ocean from here.

They came again, last night – those women in black suit contrasting the sheet on my back.

One of them was holding a tray; the other was pushing a cart. All in all there were three women, one with a tray and one with a cart. The sight of the clattered metal made me shudder; the coldness crawled from my neck down to my spine. It was rusty and ****** and somber in that dimness of the endless corridor outside.

I, however, cannot tell those things inside the cart. I wouldn’t want to. No one will believe me. If I do so, they will hurl me in that room then wrap a cold, unfeeling machine round my head and fire indiscriminate gunshots. No. I will not. I cannot. They wouldn’t believe me. They will chain me, call me mad and electrify me while guaranteeing nonsense.

But it happened, really. It happened. They pushed my blanket down and my robe up, its edge touching the base of my chin. And it was very cold, and very rough, and very sharp, that metal the woman dragged on my chest, on my skin.

It was very rough.
And very cold.
And very sharp.

And she was too strong, the other woman in black. Her left hand covering my mouth I could barely breathe, her right keeping my arms at bay while she dragged the metal on my chest, creating this curve and that slice.

And my skin burned that kind of thin burning consuming not just a tree but the entire forest with all its silent secrets.

I am holding you tightly to my chest,
my beating heart.

My ears pressed against the fabric of your clothes.
(No, you don't wear any clothes when sleeping)

Sorry, I will, for you,
when you arrive.*

So, my ears then,
pressed against the warmth of your skin.
Your heart beating my name.
You humming softly,
looking out the window,
watching the poundings of the rain.

Rain.

Please, cease.
Just cease.
Cease beating the roof.
Cease falling off the leaves, or the tree barks.
Cease kissing the pavement
or the people's skin.

Cease hoping
for hope sits on the first row to disappointment.

So please,
please, cease.

Just... cease.

Did you miss me?*

I always miss you, my love.
Like a piece of paper folded in half,
and torn through the middle...
yes,
it could still function,

but is not whole.

We are melodramatic
We are lovers.
We are romantics.
We are poets.

Aye. The romantics. The lovers. The melodramatic. The poets.

:)

*And they love each other

In flare and in consuming woods,
your kisses fell
like elusive embers.

In that flickering labyrinth
of watered avenue
which floods out of your chest

and poured unto mine,
beating faster,
and chasing the sound of your gasps

The sunbeams fell.
And all the leaves yellowed.
And all the years ceased.

And time spread its wings
Where we laid, spent
bodies strangled against the flowing current
Of both our hesitating and certain flights.

Then slowly, very slowly,
the sun burned itself
into cinders.

Because in every fleeting encounter,
we watch all these.

Each and every time.