Sunday, 19 October 2014

A wooden post card

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.