He is burdened with the baggage of his own loneliness. Laying down on his bed, the impatience in his voids creeps into him. The pillows lay crushed with the weight of his melancholy. The half empty bed bursts out into a string of evil laughter. The unruffled sheets demand the scent of hot wet passion. Lust oozes out of his skin like sweat and love remains scarce as an endless famine.
He is occupied though, surrounding himself with the scent of unfamiliar women. He tries to feed himself on the touch of women he wouldn’t mind replacing soon enough. His happy place lies in his everyday conquests. But it doesn’t worry me. Why should it? These young women have got nothing on me. They don’t taste like me, or buy him hope like I did. Their entwined fingers cannot satisfy his thirst for warmth. They will never look at him with the longing that I fill myself with. They cannot write unsung songs that compliment the rhythm of his melodies. They can't be me.
People use me to write their estranged stories and I let them. None of them make it through to the end, though. Somehow, I thought that he would. I am strangled by his subtleties. I look at him with utter disdain. Just when I convinced myself, that he would make it all the way through and cross over to reach me, he eloped. He shut me out like I was just a tawdry hawker, only that I wasn’t pleading for alms. I wanted more. I wanted him to want me enough.
But this time, I am going to use him in my little story, make him a part of something that dies unheeded. No commas, no exclamation points, no subjective clauses. His soul will be trapped somewhere in between my oxymoron’s and metaphors.
Unceremoniously, it will end; without any pomp.
And he will not even notice..
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