Image Source: Pexels- Samrat Sammy
You were behind the wheel, I rode shotgun. “Is it difficult?” I had asked. “I’m getting the hang of it, easy task.” You had said it with a smile, the moon cut in half. We were only eighteen, in driving class.
Your life had been a difficult one. Absent father, you were never loved enough. I was a bleak image. Always there in the background but never shining bright enough. Our sorrows glued us up, an inseparable love. We mostly hung by a thread, an invisible one, phone numbers. You told me how your day was. I told you that when it rained, the puddles would take your photographs. Five minutes we would say, but even five hours was never enough.
It did rain at 1:02 that night. The puddles did take your photograph. Slipping tires, screeching noise, crashing silence. It was all over.
We still hung by a thread, a physical one. Hands they’re called, fingers touched. In the darkness, breaths were heard, steady at first but then heavy ones. Then silence fell, you had hung up. Only I remained, inseparable love.
We still hang by a thread, a subconscious one. I close my eyes, you appear. Lucid on many occasions, haunting on others. Dimensions separate us, and yet we hang by a thread, inseparable love.
This was written by our contributing writer, Shams Seraj.
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