I was not just a clean, rectangular piece of wood. You knew
that. You knew that when you splashed the tears of black onto me. When you drew
swirls of circles, each small circle blurring into the next, like wheels that
had lost their reason to be in motion.
Why did you not choose any other colour? Red would have
looked nice. Maybe a touch of green too. But you choose black. And I felt your
tears, black, as black as the colour you poured on me, as you swirled up a
storm of emotions that left me exposed and you empty.
I wanted to stay on your desk forever. But you were not done
with me. And you were not done with her either. She, who had left Koru forever.
You labelled me, stamped me, posted me.
Now, I am just a rectangular, piece of wood, looking for an
address, looking for an identity.
