Murky. That is how my brain feels like.

Got a bottle in hand. Sitting on the edge of a dingy table. Remains of killing sticks filling a broken claypot as the lights flicker like the match in my hand. Body is operating on auto-pilot while my mind wanders on how things got to this point.

In my mind, thoughts of her run like a movie sequence on constant repeat. She’s volatile, adamant and fragile, like a puzzle of contradictions beautifully put together with silent sinister. She can be gregarious and snob all at the same time, she’s broken and she’s whole again in a blink of an eye, a cycle that continues like a cipher that can never be fully understood.

I know she had be through hell and back, even Christ will cringe at the sight of her mental scars, but she wears it with pride, it’s majestic to watch her walk with it, she’s beautiful in her own uncompromising way. Like a unique snowflake that will take your breath away. She is the needle in the big pile of haystack, the drop of fresh water in the middle of the ocean of people we live in.

My mind coils around these thoughts as I slowly drag on my cigarette, a killing stick, an addiction meant to kill me slowly, a piece of vice presenting itself as my loyal and royal friend. I know this, yet I can’t stop. I exhale smoke as the raindrops trickle down the trees outside my window and again my mind starts to saunter away, towards her, towards the “what ifs” and the “should haves” that is murdering me slowly like my trusted cigarette.

The rain stopped. The air is cool and damp and I’m still breathing smoke. I’m definitely not well but I cannot categorize the nature of this sickness.

The night is eerily quiet but my brain is brisk with indiscriminate thoughts. And questions, yes, questions, a lot of dispute and uncertainty. Her silhouette dances around my brain like a menacing shadow I can never shake. She’s like that lip sore in my mouth that would heal if only I could stop biting it, but I can’t.

I am slowly going insane. It is starting to hurt so much more to stay alive now. I try to muster good thoughts in futility. All I got is a bad idea with that box of matches and this bottle of kerosene. Should I stay? Should I go? I never heard a response but I get the message.

I closed my eyes and smirked. The sound of friction cuts through the thick silence.

You were the last good thing I ever saw.