May. 24th, 2011

nunuuu: (hanger)
Someone out there is listening to the same song. You toss and turn, then press repeat; it’s the same thoughts running their course in your head. You keep on wondering when you’ll ever be able to get over it, because you’re stuck and there’s nothing much to be done. It figures in your personality, your entire being, as much as the mole on the index finger of your right hand, and the matching mole on your left hand’s ring finger. No one’s blaming you for thinking that it’s fate. He noticed it too, that time. “Hey, twin moles.” Your cheeks flushed orange (you were tanned), you looked at your hands, you thought it marked you for something mundane and apocalyptic at the same time. The fact that someone pointed it out must mean you’re not the only one that sees it. Feels it. That strangeness, the sadness, the abrupt shifts of mood, at one moment saturnine and of forlorn stars; the next, so painfully ordinary that you might just neglect the oxygen passing down your trachea into your lungs (and you often do, smoky, nicotine-tinted air inhaled, conveyed, so nonchalantly. They left stains, and you will never notice or believe it.)

You thought that it would last, since someone bothered to notice those two tiny things, on appendages people use to touch, to feel for themselves the warmth of others, their offending immobility and arctic aloofness, the touching dips of bone and heaving chest. There was a time you reached out, and he said, “Hey, twin moles.” You felt recognized. When he traced them, you felt validated, like gospel down god-fearing throats.

But then, it was just one time. There’s no forgetting. Tossing and turning, pressing repeat, aching so dully, warm stomach cupped in fragile hands, palpitating, bleeding, smarting for that someone to listen to the same song—your favorite hedge maze, one you imagine to be made with such verdant, green grass, prickly to the touch. You’ve created your own map, replete with terrain and color and a dark abyss, only to lose yourself inside it, over and over again.

One day, maybe they’ll fade. They say there is a science to this. Distinguishing marks sag with ageing skin, wrinkles erasing traces of what used to be, and what never was in the first place, until all regrets and secret joys turn to ash. But baby girl, maybe is all you will ever have. 


I miss writing


nunuuu: (Default)

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