impression

It is hard to narrate when the beginning was not even clear in the first place. So I will try my best to recover the start...

I do have this impression that maybe if it wasn't this heart, I would not be the one writing.

Till now I do not comprehend the screaming amidst the music and poetry blaring from my ear phones, but I am thankful that it creates a beautiful distraction, an attempt to steal a little part of me away. I am the master of distance, loving and never loved, waiting and never waited, the author that will never be understood. The replica is the price I pay to retain your ghost. Every anger and frustration is a constant reminder of why I am still here. Then I recalled that you have been dead for awhile. You, who had held me, would never return to hold me again. You, who had kissed me, would never grace my lips again. What I see are just shadows, lingering at the corner of my eyes, showing me the things that I desire to see. I cannot tell the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. Because accepting either possibility is harsh and brutal; you will never come back again. These words are constant reminders of your death. A time that I have missed and I would never relive again. Unless the gods decide to persecute me in an exquisite, psychotic manner that would make me submit willingly. The poignant predicament is that I know exactly how.

You did not come back for me, to tell me that I am already dead.