Smashed
I don’t remember when the lights began to dim but I do remember when my phone’s screen broke. Whether they’re related I know not but I do know they happened, I know they followed a particular sequence.
I do remember when your smile no longer gave me quakes and when your touch did not set my heart skipping. When I started to wonder if I really mattered if I was wanted. The mirror I always looked through to find you is shattered, separating into two wholes and tiny particles, so that your forehead, no matter how much I tried to look, is missing and your chin perforated. But then I tried to stare at these broken pieces, using a different angle this time, and saw two conjoined faces.
Maybe we shouldn’t have. Maybe we shouldn’t have. If only we hadn’t tried to. Yet I can’t seem to forget those times. When you touching my fingers sent sparks up my spine and made me chill inside; I would feel warm from feeling your chest on mine. When the mere thought of your voice puffed up my cheeks and the taste of your lips had me paralyzed downward and dizzy.
But thinking about those good times is pointless when we never lasted. If only my phone wasn’t smashed — knew it was a bad omen. If only I didn’t feel your stone hit me hard and break me down. But I’ll move on, I’ll rather not look back. Yet, why am I walking backwards? It doesn’t matter, at least it shouldn’t. As long as I’m moving, the direction shouldn’t matter. Oh no, it would, for I deteriorate when I stay in the past and remind myself about what I may never recover.
But maybe I should bath in this gory fate. Maybe I should accept I can’t move on and or better yet go back, till work takes the whole of me and returns me to my previous state: a robot; safe and free of emotional entanglements.
