Opened the drawer and searched for both the hands that I’d removed from the clock and stored for safe keeping. No accumulative indication of the minutes and hours, empty days and nights I existed without you. An exercise that seemed as cruel as a delinquent child removing the wings from a fly or bluebottle and still hoping to see it in flight. A game of which they were aware of the outcome.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to read your hastily scribbled note of poetic sentences you pinned to the door of the men’s toilets in that disused factory in the hills above your town.
But possibly the advantage I had over other readers who happened upon your missive was I knew both your mobile phone numbers.
Fuck that’s weird I’ve now got two mobiles too. But seem incapable of using either of them.
Then I thought the note reminded me of the kiss in Chekov’s short story which was meant for someone other than a hapless soul like me. Meant for someone else. But not for me. Not for me.
A thousand kisses/ a thousand darts of curare/ a thousand wounds upon the flesh/ a thousand sufferings/ a thousand punishments of the mind/ a thousand miles to walk barefooted on a stone encrusted ten mile road. Waiting for a life to happen. Again.