I had lipstick in my hands and coloured the flaps maroon, the dirty maroon every bengali woman has left rolling around at the bottom of the drawer, which is, indeed, where I found it. I kept it on long enough in front of the mirror wearing another persons clothes for me to forget where I was and who I was and what I was supposed to be doing.
I can’t talk to people the way you can, the way there are hundreds of people in your contact list and each name means something different and special to you, or so your tbh on instagram says. I can’t take pictures for instagram and I don’t take them for filling in leaves of photo albums, for some grandchild to find with silverfish holes through the pages. I take pictures for now, for this momentary satisfaction of having recorded you standing here in front of me, of us having ever been here under today’s sun because i’ll only forget by tomorrow.
My face is ready to cry. December is for songs with melancholy flooding their melodies and you wailing in a language I don’t really understand. Then, I forget I ever loved you and come back two weeks later, six records of another muse hidden in my pocket and away from your eyes, but you welcome me all the same.
Thank god you’re just a voice in an ipod and not something real.
The screams are the worst. They’re no longer the loud deep ones -they’re high pitched, worn out, throaty shrieks which break. There were screams last Thursday and screams from two days ago when Aleppo started burning.
I find that I can only watch.