Solitary Words

The spectre of their memory followed him,
took his mind into its hands,
wrapped it in fleshy shadows, watched him react,
asked him about life, heard him say,
again and again,
that he would not speak naked.

The emptiness would not kill, would not hurt his mind,
would keep pushing little pebbles towards him
and watch his eyes grow wide with surprise,
and his hands clutch at his thoughts,
so common that no one glances at them.

His hollowness echoes in the vacuum,
the shadows draw visions of his despair,
he lies back and cries for no reason.
Soothing voices caress him.
They love him and lift him
and he keeps crying,
too ashamed to face even himself
in this state of death.

words

So he sat in the café and wrote words in a book, hoping, as always, that they would kill his pain and his sadness, for only his words would talk to him now, and hopefully, take away his loneliness, although he didn't know how . He’d left home and his family far far away, in a different part of the world yesterday, where the sun shone brightly and it was always peaceful to be around people whom he could look at and speak to without being bitten or snapped at, whom he could play with and miss without any sense of loss, for they were his friends, just because.

A place where he could go for a walk on the road, without having to worry about whom he would meet, say an ex-friend, someone whom he would, maybe, have to greet, and then think of later, for hours on end, of what could be and what should have been and what was his now, of what he could have said or screamt or whispered and how, for at home he was free and was always at ease to welcome everyone with a smile and a hug, instead of a blind stare and a shrug to accept that he acknowledged one’s presence, and also to accept that their existence was of absolutely no consequence to him, even though he didn’t want to.