I lay on the bed, and stare at the dilapidated wall, parts of the paint scrape, fall and bleed.
A myriad of craters, cracks and colors.
Fading pinks, concrete, dirty green moss and the burnt red bricks.
Strangely it reminds me of you, of how we were. Like a fresh coat of glistening paint, it brought out the best in us. Sparkling eyes brimming with dreams, the madness of love, a heart filled with the hope of new beginnings.
With time, the novelty wore off, life tends to do that.
New mountains to scale, pretty faces and a hundred roads to explore.
Insecurities and desire seeped in, with the occasional bout of jealousy and a twang of regret. Water had done its damage on the wall, parts of it peeled, exposing the hard cement underneath and an unwarranted growth of moss.
Do you recollect that day?
Remember how when I asked you if we should try and mend it, you brushed away my concerns.
The wall is strong enough to withstand a few tragedies and it is just a wall, you scowled, gritting your teeth.
You see my love, like the peeling paint, I knew you had gone. Albeit not completely, one painful step after another, away from me.
As you left, I asked you one last time, was there anything that we could do to save us, a fresh coat of paint maybe?
All you did was pound your fist on the wall, and complain that no amount of paint could make up for the troubled surface.
Here I am, staring at the wall, again.
Makes me appreciate the wonder of ruins, scars, stories and the secret maps to one’s heart.