Old, Monk’s Best

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I took the picture

I’m twenty one and loads ahead, but the woman that made my heart run, skip, jump, and fly, walked away without a smile.
The phone blinked, a text from a ‘friend’. It was half past twelve in the night, my head phones were screaming something from my playlist and I don’t really care. The tears have dried and I sit with a bottle of monk’s finest.
Pain never went away, insufferable nights and intolerable days. I watched it rain all night and with it came memories, like flies to fire; closer to a warm and comfortable death.
I remembered showing up at her ojjj9 almost unannounced one afternoon. She was surprised, and seemed slightly happy. We walked around the garden and went up to sit on the roof till the sun burnt my butt. I wished it rained, but it didn’t.
We walked down to the garden where I saw a lotus and realised how much more I love the house. I walked into the most wonderful and happy looking house. Little copper idols and lamps in little corners, a series of idols of gods and goddesses on the tea table, stools with dragon carving and wind chimes that made me smile. Old photographs and paintings lived together and I saw the stories they held on to tightly behind their dusty frames.
I realised I loved the house, and that she doesn’t love me.

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