Slouched in the easiness of my bean bag I listen to music from far, the rumours of memories faint for a while. The light has gone dimmer, an easy dusk slips through the window and settles on the tip of the coffee table. I switch on the yellow light to enervate the temptation of the evening.
A rustling wind comes and plays with the edge of the folded bed, a tiny piece of the night winks at the pillows. The books laid bare still the void in time. I wonder at the 'chronology of water', at the chronic pauses that lovers leave in their conversation. Will you again come and paint the words for me? You were good with colours, now the house looks bare, the posters lying astray waiting for caring hands, the empty walls wait in expectation, they give me the quizzical look of the woman wanting to speak at a bus stop to kill time, to share the burden of waiting. But I hear only faint rumblings in a foreign tongue, I listen deep to decipher the words, but understanding has gone missing. I accept my failure, affirm my ephemerality, and bind myself to the waiting for things to dawn on me. How long?