How do you scrub the memories away and start anew? It has left a big dark stain on a beautiful white cloth that's never been touched before. The way the cloth holds onto the stain, you'd forget it wasn't meant to be a part of it. You continue in your oblivion. You go on believing if it wasn't for the stain, the cloth wouldn't be anything but blank and empty. In a way, the stain is the cloth itself. What is the cloth without it? Like a dried bloodstain that only gets darker with time, it clings and deepens onto every fiber. Years go by, some days you completely ignore the stain, while other times, you can't help but focus on its darkness. It pulls you in again and again. And so one day, you decide to be done with it once and for all, you rub the cloth with both hands as you watch the water carry the bleeding red. While you try your best to get the stain off by tugging and pulling, you now see what was once white, has a tinge of red spread all over the cloth....
I had a daughter once, her name was Hope. Oh, you should've seen how my heart leaped in joy when I held her in my arms. Every fiber in me was dedicated to making her safe and showering her with all the love I could give. I cradled her in my arms. Oh, you should've seen how her tiny fingers were my reason to live. She was my love. My own. I spent nights stroking her hair and showing her off to the moon as its competitor. I held her close to me always. Blocking and pushing away the things that might prick her baby skin. Oh, I wish I could buy love in the supermarket, buy it for her and gift wrap it with care and dreams and give every stock they have, to my precious. And I would happily spend years paying it off with nothing but her happiness in return. Oh, i dreamt I held my baby Hope, in my hands singing to her on rainy nights till my coffee got cold and I dozed off, my baby Hope sound asleep in my arms. But one day I had a horrific dream, I dreamt that my hope was gone. I sea...
Your words were a permanent impression in my mind. Even though my fingers smudge the ends of every word written with fresh ink all over me, in attempts to touch it - a fool's attempt to think that those words were as tangible as you. But yet the smudged letters were readable. Soon enough the words felt more tangible in fact it was the only tangible thing as the writer ceased to exist, leaving only shattered dust and scrap in my memory. But the words remain. Smudged and faded yet the words remain. And now I am in search of a new writer whose application would fill this empty seat and remain there to write the same poem on my mind over and over again. Written : Dec 20, 2016
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