On days like this, I don’t want the pain to stop.
I wake up dreaming of sumptuous steaks in golden platters and my stomach turns. The weak but insistent rays of a late-winter sun struggle against my dusty blue curtain and I try to wipe off the smug faces of my uncle and aunt sitting across that table with golden platters and golden candelabras.
The ache has settled snugly in the deep of my throat and is shooting a thin red line of pain towards the right ear from time to time. Stretching is impractical since that has been leading to shooting pain in the abdomen area for the past three mornings and still I stretch, and let out a scream that hurts my throat.
On days like this, I’m increasingly fascinated by my capacity for pain. there’s pain in the small of my back and on my shoulder blades. The right side of my neck is slowly building up a throb and the temples let out small pinpricks from time to time. I note all of them. I do nothing.
On days like this, when the knot in the heart turns almost physically painful, I turn my attention to the real physical ones. On days like this, they are a relief. Days the calls run in seconds and then just stops. Days the 10 words you have spoken have all tail dropped and have been answered in monosyllables. It gets a bit lonely here, in my room with dusty curtains, it gets a bit bitter.
On days like this, when love looks like smoke but feels like stone.
The Featured image is Amalasuntha with a Yellow Eye by Osvaldo Licini, sourced from the page A Way to Blue.
In Other Words 