On the night she left I watched the stars extinguish one by one until I could no longer see the bare branches through my window but continued to feel them thrash within the winds of my mind — until day light came and cruelly illuminated their sadness once again.
In the languid light of each new morning I know nothing will be the same. I look at her belongings, I touch and hold them with hands that are not mine but belong to the wreckage of a man who has been washed up in an unfamiliar land where speech is of no use, a man who has lost all that once remained precious.
I look at her unwashed cup and feel jealous of its lilies that rest on the banks of rivers stained by marks of her lips against petals like blood on snow. I press its cold edge to my cheek, and with my eyes closed consider the possibility that joy may return at some stage, at some place yet unknown — for without memories becoming memories of themselves nothing can be rebuilt. But for now reluctant remembrance is existence and sadness is my solace.
I once watched myself scale endless, insurmountable peaks in my dreams and catch the sun within my arms, now those dreams drift away each day as far below I stand immobile in the darkness of sleep while heavy clouds oppress the unfamiliar world that surrounds me now. Existence is an icy cloth that smothers my face and forces my eyes shut; I wait for its numbness to intrude into every pore until breathing becomes a laboured murmur through the dank heaviness of the hours it conceals, until night and morning are only distinguishable by a pallid glow pushing against its fabric.