Frost

He said you were at the park where we used to meet. Thus, I rushed out of my room and went to at least catch a glimpse of you. The rain was heavy and the wind blew cold. Branches of trees move as if slapping each other. And leaves fall like tears of pain on the ground. Gravity is such sorrow, some force I try to bully as I run the bridge that connects the park to our village, the bridge that connected you to me.

You used to stand on the other end waiting for me. You smoke the old man’s stick, the red one. It smelled like chimney. Its smell clings to my shirt, my hair, and even my fingers when I hold your hand that held it. I never wanted it for you. I told you twice or more to try the gold or the green. You always tell me “I will when I want to.” I just quiet down. You always get your way anyway. No point in arguing.

But you did not get your way that year. Perhaps for a while you did. I fell in to your trap. I was caught between utter bliss and insanity. I liked neither. Bliss was too good to be true, while insanity was too difficult to handle. There was no place for me. I had to go. I went while you slept. As you walk your dreamland seeing whatever it is that made you smile that night with your eyes closed, I stood up from your makeshift bed, stuck a note on your guitar, and fled into the night. No goodbyes. No arguments, just a woman walking out of your room, out of your life. I believe I have left something though.

Thus, I run towards the park. As I do, I struggle against my own mind. What is the rationale behind this endeavor? Will there be absolution if I cage in another ball of memory a vision of you standing by the park statue? Will the downpour bring about some form of cleansing? And will the blustery weather blow away covert regrets? I cannot find an answer. At the very least I supposed it is the belief that I may just be able to get back what I have left.

Thus, I run towards the park. I try with all my might, against the darkness and gloom of this night, to see if there really are figures by the statue of the horseman. The rainfall, however, is misting my glasses or is it something else. I cannot, even with all the desire I can muster, see you. Not even remnants of you ever being there. Perhaps the breeze bit out the smell of smoke. Perhaps the rain washed off the footprints. Or time. Probably, time lapsed too fast and deleted everything in a wink. There was no one, only the horseman, a parked motorbike, a passing tricycle and the loneliness of all these elements put together. There was not even a memory to collect.

I decided to stop rushing and savor the atmosphere instead. I walked towards one of the park benches, one placed right across the horseman. It is a cold evening and I failed to wear a jacket in my hurry. I wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to feel warmer. But it is not merely the wind and the rain which is cold. The stone horseman is cold, unmoving, proudly standing on its pedestal. The metal of the parked car absorbed the low temperature as well. And the staccato of rain makes everything feel even frozen.

As I sat, my thoughts drift to that evening again and this, tonight. That night was even colder than the frost that may be made out of this park and its elements’ coldness. Your body, it was warm under the sheets, breathing silently, yet you exude this aloofness. You dream as I contemplate. You smile as I curl in confusion.

Remember when I told you how humans live and dwell in words and how much they are writers themselves that way. That night I was not a writer alone, I was more of a human. Your words could have been a dwelling place. But you were a musician. You can do with nothing but vibrations, the sensation it gives to your ears, the stimulation it causes your mind. Vibrations, you can harness from actions. From wing flaps, landing footsteps, even the minutest movement. You said they would suffice even without words. A logical explanation to instrumental music, you even added, a logical explanation to your seeming indifference.

That night, thus, I went my way. I made a mistake, though, thinking it is only you and the note on your guitar I have left behind. My feet stepped out of your room, my body walked out of your life, yet I know somehow I am stuck, like the statue on the pedestal, under the downpour of your cold heart and bound by your blustery temperament.

I made a mistake. You still got your way. You always get your way.