\\Cons of being a park-bench
The sight of a park with a bench alongside a streetlamp, right outside my window.
I wear the fur-coat I bought for the winters here and head outside, holding her book. The park-bench needed company, and so did I.
Comfortably warm and now settled, I turn the book over to read the blurb. I knew it to every word and letter already. Of course, I would. She'd read it out to me a hundred times asking if it's sounding right.
The title was more of a pun. Such a sham! She'd always say she loves me and hates my puns, and now she chooses one of them for her book title. Women, you see!
Beneath the blurb was a little *About the Author.*
Ah! I know all about her, alright!
It's been a month since and my heart & mind still hold on to her, to the tiniest detail.
Like Neruda puts it, our days spent in love were short, and those in oblivion, longer.
I remember how she spent sleepless nights trying to finish this book. And now, it's my turn to spend sleepless nights, hunting for closure. At once, the fur-coat couldn't keep me warm. She was colder than the winter could ever be. I keep the book aside and look up to the welkin. She was like those stars I couldn't fathom into constellations, as John Green puts it.
However, I relate the most to the park-bench I'm sitting on. We're twins at the moment. We're both lonely, we're both cold, we're both tired of people taking us for granted and leaving us when they feel like. And most of all, we're both in the dark.
Don't blame the night for being cold. The sun left her at sunset.
Don't blame me for being cold. She left me at her sunrise.
Done for the night, I stand up to leave. Now, am I just another person that took the bench for granted and left when I felt like? Guilty!
7 JAN AT 1:40