Fulcrum

Swirling, melodious, wanton colours. Primary. They would now fill her room like opaque light. And an ancient smile that had been buried with an epitaph, would resurrect. Like wrinkled skin on grandmother’s loving hands and yellowed pages from a living book of poems. Like tears bitten back in haste. His memory would rise in her room. It would float by like invisible faith. Mingle with the dust and settle on some sleepy angel’s wing. He would then begin a conversation in a familiar voice. Bees buzz. Embarrassed flowers blush in an effort to hide their hues. An old graveyard overgrown with foliage. Livid. Pallid. Cassette tapes with love songs that crackle and wheeze. A dry cough. Pitter patter. He would go on. His smile consistent. She oblivious. It’s a song that’s playing in her forced thoughts trying to retrieve him from the abyss of her neverendingly cluttered memories. She irons out a crease here in her heart and smoothes out a crumpled thought lovingly. Little pieces of his memory hitherto thrown away carelessly. There is a famine now. She picks them fluttering bits. Faulty paper planes he threw in the bin. Like her.Some fly helter skelter and whirl like dustbunnies. She grabs them with practised hands. Stitches them up. A motley patchwork. Laughable and bizarre. Exotic. Haute. Hers. All hers. His smile twists into a meaningless curve. Precise. Lovable on his lips nevertheless. He climbs out the window and thinks he disappears into the night. But she has him captured. In the mirror of her soul. It’s her ancient love. She makes a pot of tea and sits his memories down. For another warm, cozy night filled with his many fragrances.

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