He read. He read as he turned to look at her. She was not there anymore. She left. He searched for that absent angel there. He looked at the clock. The time he wanted to know had drifted away as he had been dreaming to climb the mountains. He shouted her name. The girl never showed up. He looked at the grey walls filled up with blues. He saw her coming from the colour-less wall. Her wings were not tied anymore. Her hand was on his cheeks. He fluttered with the angel as her wings carved his hands. The feather from another feather looked at him, as he shouted her name that echoed through the dusty walls. She was the queen in the empire of just subjects. There was no king. Her hand was not filled with scars anymore. Her wings bristled through his cheeks. Her face was not tearful anymore. She looked at him through her flawless eyes. He gazed at her beauty. The same beauty he couldn’t put a name for before. He had no tides in him. He was silent. His whole body was stringent. He was like a sea without any tides. He was no longer arresting people with his charming twinkle. Instead, he abducted people with his tears now. He tore the pages of the book. The book was torn into a hundred pieces. He threw it on the wall. The opus of his toil was shred into pieces. They were up in the air.
Blood oozed out from his tender body. She was
not there. The angel with wings had let him become a corpse. The wooden floor
was teeming with his fluid. The ground was clubbing with despondency.
There were barricades around him. They took him
outside into the wild world. They drew his outline on the floor with a chalk.
He was never white like the chalk. He was always black. They hoarded his hand
work. In it, he had written,
“I ran.
And I just continued running. Until, I saw her. Then, I forgot that I had to
run. Later, she ran leaving me lone in this lousy world. Then, I ran too. But,
just into the beats of the heaven.”
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