The silence in between the rains, the humid stillness where the tiny flycatcher with her ebony wings is busy making stick homes impervious to the upcoming assault of the wet needle wind, and have forgotten to chirp; where the tadpoles, like drops of ink in the seaweed water of the pond are too young to start croaking.
And between that, with only the squelching of the bare pecan-brown feet on the sopping soil, is something bygone.
Something forgotten, lost; turning everything else fragmented. Chopped uneven nails clawing into the translucent just out of reach.
Parted memories rippling in through the lace of smoke from clove cigarettes- the smell of bleach and sweet neem soap the renters left, the taste of the sleepy blue sky under half lidded eyes on the fourth step of the ash ladder, the exaggerated sunrays from the primeval coloured-glass.
The unfounded gap, too recent, still deep; hollow with unlit sconces on the mystic indiscernible walls. Like the irony of yellow roses in the windowless attic, like the year long wait for the sequel where the lovers reunite and the twin dies, or like the broken pieces of seaglass ornating a fair ankle.
It is not a regret of losing, but a longing for what’s lost. The longing for a ghost of a touch on the wrist where the green veins pulse with hot blood; the longing to steal glances long enough to attend to the flecks of gold in the flamboyant depth of forest green pupils; the longing to wake up cocooned in wrinkled sheets beside a shock of auburn waves tinged burnt-orange by the fledging sun.