It poured.

Where are you?

I am here. Waiting endlessly by the window of my newly painted home.

I look out and you aren’t there.

The paint has dried.

The smell still lingers around.

Reminding me of the long nights with you.

When your fingers measured the length of your ego inside me.

Like a needle in a haystack. You lost your way.

Only for me to find mine.

The times when you evoked the smell of of my old withered flower. The one that bloomed once in a blue moon.

Thanks to my not so frequent self care.

You watered it well. She bloomed. Full and fluffy.

The whiff was pungent. Old. Bold. Gold.

Reminded me of my younger days.

Aldo reminded me that i’am getting old.

My eyes closed only to open to a world of fantasies and fireflies.

The smell. My smell.

Half baked and fully charred.

“If you’re looking for passionberry and Mango, one must go to a bodyshop. My body is not your kind of shop.” I said.

You loved it.

“It’s real. The smell. The flabs. The color. The marks. Just like the moon on a dark sky” you said.

“Now help me shed some rain” I replied.

That night. It poured.

#conversations