Sunday, December 5, 2010



Finally the day came when I wrote a letter that didn’t have your name on it.

Somewhere between reading volumes on how to save the world from itself and meeting impossible deadlines, I realised how there was a part of my life I could never really share with you, because you were too lost in your own little world where real things didn’t really exist, except as inspiration to fuel your canvas. Somewhere between the incessant morbidity of selling my soul for a degree, I saw our child materialise and he didn’t know who he was. He asked me how he was born and I didn’t know what to tell him.

He was a love child. A child born of love. And all his curious questions made me hate him because they reminded me of everything you had been and how it had all fallen apart.

Whose lips are you going to kiss?
No one’s.
I’d kiss you, but your lipstick is worth more than my lips.

So I had a pre-emptive abortion and left without my baggage, with the ghost of our child leaning his forehead against the window, looking outside to the world for the answers we never had.


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