Dis-illusioned

Was it really so hard for you to be real? I spent my time counting stars, writing letters that I never posted, sipping coffee that was already too cold. Just not the right temperature. Just never the right temperament. I spent my time walking on tiles, careful to place my awkward feet right in between, careful not to touch the boundaries. Always too careful not to touch the boundaries. I wish you had been more prudent about my obsessiveness. But you went right ahead and spilled water over the lines I had drawn. Now I don't know where my heart lies, nor my mind. I don't pay heed to your words, or mine. There's no way to make out one thing from the other; the sweet words from the poisonous; the real from illusion; the hot from the cold. I burnt my hand. But the coffee had already grown cold. The cigarette you carried around was finally put off and now the butt lies like a big black spot on my little blank life. I had begged for years, it makes me happy that you finally put it off. I envy you your shallowness dear. I have come to realize it is a terrible thing to dig deeper meaning into things that mean so little and are tossed aside by the rest.

The room is full of the cries of a baby, loud enough to match the splattering of the rain on the window panes outside. A little angel brought down into a world already hurling towards emotional destruction. Outside, there lie stacks of stones – towers assembled carefully in prayer. The hint of a disturbance is all it would take to dismantle them. To tear apart the families of the hands' that placed them atop each other.

Now, she wears clammy clothing that stays damp for days. A shy tuck of hair behind the ear; a lunar voice throwing venomous insults, filling the empty sky's ears; a permanent sort of shadow casts her face - dusty with a caked layer of fear and anguish. No secrets to reveal and tears that have almost lost their fluidity. She tries to struggle inside the house on the off chance of dreamy nights - her nook for days when the rain is just not stopping; the most real thing she possesses. But there is a long, long queue outside that little hut. There are a million in line, ahead of her. God’s mighty army; those grown up angels. Or a forgotten debris of the crushed hope of countless? They light up what is left of their lives, and hold it up. Will the flame quicken? Or spiral towards its end, blown out by the stirring wind.
The tiny one inside cries out, and it seems like for now, the world is still intact.