The sparrow

"Its time ," I said with doom in my speech was caught in my throat, the way food came up as vomit, my fingers trembled and sweat leaked from every crevice. His name was Michael, I had loved this man Michael ,though he had a wife and those two snot nosed brats had defiantly put prisms so high like barbed wire fences.They did not want me to love this man, I did not want to love this man.
"We're ready mis but are you?" I glared at my reflection, a tangible self was fading in the aftermath of an emotional holocaust. I fixed the brown squared wig, looking like a psychic,investigating my brown depths for clues,
 Traces of my former self. Where was she? The brown skinned girl with the big toothed grin, and the glimmer of hope in her eyes shining obnoxiously at the world like a silver dime. My happiness had been as robust as seasoned wife, and now my smile could be found in a casket with him. Nadia had warned me of this, " to love a dying man is like playing emotional hot potato," she'd offered in that crude polish accent, her pale skin a contrast to mine, with eyes that shone like diamonds.  " you do not love this man,
 You are lonely," and yet why did I not feel like a sparrow with its missing fellow.


Popular posts from this blog

How to deal with feeling left out

Vasco da gamma shipwreck