Sitting alone on this bed, wrapped in a zebra stripped fleece.
No no no. I can’t start it like that. I’m not you. I do not have the pizzazz to paint off such a vivid picture.
Day One, Day Two, Day Hundred.
I have to go now. Don’t be angry.
I’ll leave you with a barrel of memories,
And I’ll plant a kiss on your lips.
Don’t hold your head so low,
That you can’t see the grey clouds hanging low
While the cold gently crawls up your spine.
How is it possible that the mind
Can replicate the feeling of falling from a high altitude
When you never have fallen?
How’s it that you can replicate love,
A love that proved to be surrealistic?
Spring is here. Flowers have began to appear.
Birds sing what seem like blue blues.
Blue blues?
One. Two. Three. A Hundred.
That’s how long it had taken to decide.
The weak breeze whispers nothing.
Emptiness comes like a fever, without warning.
And it stuck since you got up that morning.
It’s been so long since you were flying high
With the world spinning fast yet moving slow.
Misty eyed you read the letter one last time.
One. Two. Three. A Hundred.
That’s how many pairs of shoes stood on the shelf.
Your favourite being grey winter boots.
Though tight around the ankles, you still stood tall.
It’s time.
The water sips into your very being.
You’re thinking much clearer now.
Much clearer than you did from the ground.