Faint as it seems, there was a Friday in the recent past. Frequent mood swings and a couple of tantrums later, winter has decided to act more unpredictable than an adolescent teen. Blankets stay stacked in the loft, a fresh layer of dust to ornament its age.
Days spent in trying to be possessive, ending up clingy of tragic poems. Hours spent answering echoes of my questions, a casual stretch reminds me of my very small room. Twin skylights out of focus, ground glass fantasies live on the other side. To be light, to be able to cross over.
Unread books stacked up in front, TV remote, headphones, nail-cutter,charger, jeans tangled as if they are one. A to-be-extinct calendar of 2009 flashes the date. The dry winds crack the skin on your high cheek bones. The contrast is uncanny. Trees shed their leaves.
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