Sirop de Vanille

As is evident, I am unable to write these days. So, I begged and pleaded with Miss Narcotic to contribute here… She finally agreed and wrote me something… something heartbreaking-ly beautiful and haunting. Here, here, I raise a champagne flute and let a tear drop fall. Thank you Narco.

***

He haunts my waking hours with his absence and makes up for it by walking into my dreams when I lie in bed-shutting my eyes and pulling the comforter over my head. Holding on to the comforter tight so that he doesn’t walk into my mind, but he always beats a path and I find him there waiting to walk me down another path of what will not be.

We stand by the orange blossoms- I always rest my head on his shoulders while he hugs me tight ‘protecting you against the cold Northern winds’ outside the Bistro waiting for our favorite spot in the corner. Sometimes, he tumbles into bed- onto the white pristine sheets and I can see him deliquesce into pristine nothingness right there, before my eyes. The other times he lies there, arms wide open and a smile beckoning me towards him. I fall into those strong arms and the sound of a winter breeze blowing whistles an ominous tune into my ears. I close my eyes smelling his pungency and playing with the hair on his chest- and then it’s tufts of air that I’m pulling at. The pillow on my right placed against the headrest and the sheet turned up at the corner, as if he slipped out of my arms when I blinked.

Sometimes, he gets her along too or perhaps, she just comes with him. I can feel my tears pricking my eyes and as they force their way out of my tightly shut eyes, they tear at the eyelids and leave threads of blood as they stream down my cheek and fall to the ground- heavy, breaking into a million little pieces- a million dreams being crushed at my feet. They walk in hand in hand and as I follow them from room to room, they seem oblivious to my presence. Last night, he was wearing the white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and those blue denims when he walked in. I waited for him in the balcony for our night of champagne and dance, watching the street lamp cast shadows on the deserted road. That’s when she came jangling her stilettos and wearing a hideous black dress- her hair plastered to her forehead with the beads of sweat and cackling like a wicked witch- the very giggle that makes him blush at the ears. As I stood there watching him approach the walnut doors that keeps the world from entering our world and the curtain billowing with each step, she ran to the doors threw them open and ran into his arms. Last night, He danced our last waltz with her. 

*
The cause endures, the hope still lives and the dreams, they never die. Even when I kill them with my bare hands.