personal blog: simon

after three hours of fog, submerged in Kevin’s scent, wrung in my bed sheets, I strike to action and savagely pull the sheets off. resting not to end there and gather Kevin’s mementos. thought of Kevin’s pain, rips me. I am not a monster void of feelings. I was a sensitive man; but pain has thickened and hardened the walls.

two boxes of Kevin’s stuff line up against the wall. a sentimental poster hanging above them. poster Kevin has always detested.

“this is gruesome.” his words rang through the room as he entered my place for the first time.

‘he has no imagination.’ I thought and returned a faint grin.

like a checkmark, I have made my impression, and Kevin was hooked ever since. hooked on the conduit to my unconventional psyche.

across the room, the paintbrush rests on the window sill, and the canvass’ untouched in months tucked to the corner. a hobby that never flourished into a profitable business. plus I ran out of subjects to paint after meeting Kevin. for some reason, one interfered with the other. the half-finished sphere in a greyish blue of the moon. a detailed and unique shade of darkness to depict the rare depth of each crater. a collapse of the rock from an impact of an unwelcomed and violently colliding external body, like the engraving from hazards in my life. the deeper they lie, the darker they are.

stillness, silence, and unrest. how little comfort even with Kevin’s departure?

my sister’s insistence to meet doesn’t help.

I should have not answered her text.

♠

read more: ← saturday 12:52 ♦ saturday 16:39 →

© simon whittle — second act