It is etched so clearly: too clearly. You crying on the stairway of building number ten c, me leaving in a green and black rickshaw not waving goodbye.
It has been 3 months now, and I will never know why you did it. I look for answers in my flaws, in what your mother said, in our laughing pictures from January and February, and the middle of March, in our stolen moments at the tea stall, in our afternoons lingering at ghastly furniture stores: the day we found the perfect white dining table.
Why did you do it? How did you do it? And, what made you let it go all so easily?
I will never know.
Everything is more difficult now. Stirring a pot of chicken Thai curry with kafir leaves and fresh basil, lounging on a sofa without you to rest my head on, falling asleep with nobody to think about. Reading without watching you thumbing through the dictionary, waking up without your happy morning voice, dancing in the bar, sitting in the front seat of a white car, putting my clothes away, watching the rain from a staircase.
You build in so many memories into two years: nothing falls away. There are ugly memories of things I wish I had never said, and happy memories of when you came home to the smell of prawn noodles, and us watching Marley and Me on the laptop snuggled up in our red and blue quilts: the winter sun scathing.
Where do we go from here?
What do I believe?
Who do I lean too when I’m afraid?
Who do I talk to when nothing seems to be going right?
And, who do I listen to, when all I want to hear is how you are…
Nothing adds up.
Nothing leaves the past behind.
To think: It was all a lie.