Going to my office, I know these are the last days.
I take a long unmeasured look at the little space that was mine.
I go to my desk to retrieve my books, notes, drugs.
Anything that smells of me.
I am leaving nothing behind. Not a hoof.
There are memories that are trying to stick together.
I brush it off while I listen to my heart beat.
My table is no comfort when I cry.
It is cold, hard and dumb.
I used to write rapidly to fight the depressing stories.
They come with their colours to my mind.
There were phone calls that left me with the resounding feeling of alone.
The months of forgetfulness..
Forgetting to laugh, to write the date, to reply the letter, to read my notes.
The frictions that reminded me how young I am.
The fights that leave you red then sober.
The laughters during meetings.
The madness at mediation sessions.
The sickening feeling of putting a wig, wearing another name
Acting a role.
“You write fast”
“You sound polished, sure you lived at Aba?”
“You’re an extrovert”
“You can’t talk to me like that”
“Pick up your damn phone ”
“You have forgotten me”
I nod, smile, frown, bury.
I’m picking up the reins to learn a strange language.
Time did not fly please.
I counted each day.
I have begged time to dissolve
I have begged time to stay.
I have begged time to fold.
But I have been here all along for all the right reasons
My life hasn’t just started.
I have always known my name, I can always trace my path.
The world has always been ours.
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