There is only so much I can do to stop thinking about this. This piece of time becomes a constant reminder for what is not mine. It was never mine, it will never be mine. Such reminders are painful. They hurt, like small thorns that pierce the superficial layer of skin, and prick but do not draw blood. I wish they drew blood. I wish it left a visible scar. But these don't. So, I smile and do not cry, my eyes sink back further, the twinkle in them dwindles, the shine wavers threatening to lapse into salty tears, I hide behind the life which keeps me just on the edge of sanity.
I try to use my senses to understand the piece of time that I have.
I hold it in my hand, feel it's gloriously silken surface. It is shiny and my reflection looks back at me. It is heavy to hold in my hand. Sometimes I grow tired of holding it. I have to take it off and keep it away so my hand can rest. It feels like a weight. I cannot describe how it feels. I can describe what it reminds me off. It makes me think of handcuffs not the playful ones, but like the shackles of remorse. It doesn't remind me of you. But it does remind me of you.
I press it agaisnt my forehead and cheeks, it is steely cold to touch, it has not warmed up even after being in contact with my skin. That makes me wonder, how this is so like you. May be you are also cold. Yes you are cold to touch physically and metaphorically. You do not warm up from being in touch with me.
I put it back on. I look at this piece of time and wonder what it will mean to me. Now I carry it with me trying to get used to it. He and I are strangers. As I write this it clatters on the edge of the key board making metallic sounds, and I look at it, I get distracted by how the black letters on the screen are reflecting eerily of its shiny surface.
I see smudges where my fingers have traced lines across the surface, I try to clean them away rubbing it against my dress.
I think may be I will get used to this. May be this is a good reminder, that you are not mine.
I try to use my senses to understand the piece of time that I have.
I hold it in my hand, feel it's gloriously silken surface. It is shiny and my reflection looks back at me. It is heavy to hold in my hand. Sometimes I grow tired of holding it. I have to take it off and keep it away so my hand can rest. It feels like a weight. I cannot describe how it feels. I can describe what it reminds me off. It makes me think of handcuffs not the playful ones, but like the shackles of remorse. It doesn't remind me of you. But it does remind me of you.
I press it agaisnt my forehead and cheeks, it is steely cold to touch, it has not warmed up even after being in contact with my skin. That makes me wonder, how this is so like you. May be you are also cold. Yes you are cold to touch physically and metaphorically. You do not warm up from being in touch with me.
I put it back on. I look at this piece of time and wonder what it will mean to me. Now I carry it with me trying to get used to it. He and I are strangers. As I write this it clatters on the edge of the key board making metallic sounds, and I look at it, I get distracted by how the black letters on the screen are reflecting eerily of its shiny surface.
I see smudges where my fingers have traced lines across the surface, I try to clean them away rubbing it against my dress.
I think may be I will get used to this. May be this is a good reminder, that you are not mine.
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