It felt like breathing in water, cool and comforting against my very lungs. The tendrils flirted with the wind and shied away from the butterflies. The sun peaked through the laden boughs, and it felt like the cracks on aquarium walls, freedom and pain, all marred and mingled. With every moment, the next one slowed down, stretched impossibly into the other, passing through my fingers. Not slipping, but letting go. With every memory, the next one faded, blurring the hues. Not into fogs, but into mould.
They’d say the dawn stretched and spread, like a yawn, contagious and bittersweet, it’s comfort lulling and bleak. They’d say twilights only came to show the stars, pinpricks of light, light nevertheless. They’d say the waters were blue, or the sky was, one of them, reflecting the other. And they’d say, it was all for you.
But when the darkness winked in the night, and air didn’t move beneath the clouds, they’d stay silent. No answers to brag about.
So, when they say, beauty lays around me, platters at a banquet, I love pointing out that I’m not invited.
So, when they tell me, fragrance blooms for me, wind in the sails, I love pointing out that I’m not venturing.
And when they tell me, run your hands through the wind, caress for wings, I love pointing out that I could never fly.
Then they ask me, to what avail then, all of this paradise? I love pointing out, only to hold me, in my demise.