((why are you fighting for something you don’t believe in?))
you take your heart out and throw it into a glass case. the blue it is duller than the light in your eyes, and oh god, isn’t that a pity? if it glowed, you could sell it.
but now, all you can do is stare at it from across the room. worth less than a cent, you are constantly reminded of the wordlessness within your lined papers and the wordlessness within your mind. light from your lamp sways past it when the wind blows. it is only in those sweeping moments that you see what you used to yearn.
it is odd, it is odd.
the manual says to wait a week before it should wither away into ashes, and you’ve spent these seven days at your bedside. the watering can has long been abandoned, but it still beats against the cold case that has now become its skeleton.
you almost want to grasp the bone shattering anger because of the money you’ve lost and the energy you’ve spent tearing it out.
you almost want to feel, but you’ve made sure that every single wave of colours has been extracted, all plucked out.
so you lie on the bed, count the bumps on the ceiling. you sit by the windowsill, name all the crows that fly past the building opposite. you stand at the balcony, watch everyone you used to know walk past your life again.
after the sun comes and goes too many times to remember, your fingers curl around an inkless pen and you write invisible poems on crumpled pieces of paper. the stories of kings and queens overwhelm those of the mundane routine of being alive. the tales of inevitability and the invincible power of apathy run rounds around your table top.
then, when you’re all dried out, you play on the soundless keys of a broken piano. is this nostalgia? is this longing, when your hands move effortlessly over the minors and majors?
it can’t be, not when you’ve kept your heart away.
except, except, except –
out of the corner of your eye, you watch as it continues to expand ever so slightly every three seconds, the blue fading in and out like frozen breath on winter nights. the veins that weave in between your ribs ache for something to hold onto.
the water in the can has evaporated. the glass has turned foggy from lack of oxygen. but your heart’s there, begging for a warmer home.
“go away,” you say.
it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t, and you can’t even weep when you don’t hold grief in the palm of your hands.
((or maybe you do, because there’s a tingling at the tips of your hair and the ends of your toes. something within you has wielded a sword and you feel it pray to a religion you aren’t faithful to.))