Sunday, December 4, 2011

Black.

A memory.

Face to face after years. Seven years to be exact.
I was dolled up in my being just as much as you were coupled in yours.
Exchanged greetings.
Ooh-ed and Aah-ed about how long it had been.
The father was present. He wasn't getting onto my last nerves, either.
Looking back, perhaps it was because you took over that spot for that moment.
Mum was inviting you and your  family over; your family of about two years?
Maybe it was just me, but I couldn't stand straight without feeling those ugly eyes on me.
No one knew what transpired in that room that morning.
No one knew about the possible murder of the person I could have been.
No one will ever know.
No one but us; you and I.
And we were not at the liberty to tell.

I call it Black.

2 comments:

  1. Incest!
    Oops. Black, sounds more damaging.
    I hope all is good.
    Hariyali.

    ReplyDelete