When did my heart first break? It broke one day, on its own, when I learned wanting was never enough. When the hills collapsed and turned into the city where nothing ever happens. When the dust stood suspended in the air before it settled, a sunlit colloidal pause. When the leaves stopped fluttering, paralysed in their pallid, sorry state, indefinitely. When the skies turned grey without a chance of rain, staying colourless for days to come. When every word fell flat on my ears, deaf from the sound of the implosion inside me. When I forgot the sound of laughter, turning to scoffs like how you settle for an alternative in a clearance sale; then to a reluctant smile; then to nothing. When the green was gone, and the flowers stopped blooming, dying before they opened up. When walking was a chore, and my feet shook as I struggled to take another step, and my lungs heaved before I could. When the world was tasteless; when I lost the sense of pleasure in poetry and art alike. When you disappeared without a trace, and I did not know how to breathe anymore.
When did my heart first beat? It thumped one day, on its own, as it climbed out of an early grave and crawled itself to life. I have never been more alive. The hills have never stood taller; the city still laughs. The dust has settled, the sun is warmer, and time has started running again. The sage green leaves now flutter, conversing with the breeze, like furtive lovers who have managed to find a corner of their own. What of the skies? The skies have never been bluer and endless. Ask the birds; they will tell you about the pleasures of doing somersaults over the indigo backdrop. They seem to be having the time of their lives, and truth be told, so am I. There is an unshakeable calm inside me—the battles are all long fought and repented over. Of laughter, there is plenty. Of flowers? The daisies have bloomed the brightest this year; the bougainvillaeas have never been so overwhelmingly pretty. I have walked so far; I know I’m not tiring anytime soon. My days have been full of poetry and prose lately; all I think about is art. It was a pleasure to have been stabbed by you. It was a luxury to have died at all.