21st December

something died.
they used to call it a heart.

and it need not a sad song, or even closure to shut all thoughts out. it needed no words to say good bye, or a dramatic crying scene. nor a tribute video.
all it needed was silence. no audience. no visitors. no eulogies.it was just pure dim light, and all i could hear were useless breaths for a useless lung because of a dead heart.
all it needed was solitude. and peace. and time. and wait for the air to thin out because it has been coughing all the smoke it could inhale, this drug that's killing ,e, this pain that's seering, the crescendo pain that elevates every minute, but i dont do anything to relieve it, it consumed all the space in the mediastinum, leaving no space for breathing. no space of for fleeting.and because of that, the heart died. it stopped. it had enough.

there were no stories left to tell. and it did not need excuses. nor expanation. she said she wanted to talk it all out, but for someone like me who never runs out of profanities and curses to say, i was speechless. maybe it was too much to be told, and too much to be processed. maybe it was much too tiring that there was no point in being mad. it was all pure acceptance and setting adrift. it was dying in the most subtle way, burying all the questions i never want to be answered. maybe she was never really for me. and why is there a maybe in the first place. with all this chasing and bargaining, and blindly hoping, and hopeless praying this, will have to come to an end.

and it was that night.

the day a heart died.

There was a ring on my hand: on the finger fated for vows.
It was there when I ate and slept and dreamt; the sweet chain of shining gold embracing the finger on my hand.
It was there when tears soaked up my cupped palms. When I shoved my shaken heart so it won't miss a pulse.
This finger fated for vows, now naked, now longing for my beloved, still suspects the ring is still there.
The vow is gone. The touch is gone. Only this finger thinks its still warm: the thin line that bound the flesh to the chain; the penumbra of stain.
Sometimes my hand suspects the finger is no longer there.

Someone tried to cut the finger thinking my hand will gain its reason back, and finding it persisting, tried to cut my whole hand.