The White Room
Here comes the morning shot. To make me forget, but I remember. That night’s trapped within me.
They keep asking and I keep telling them my story:
With the Sun peeking through the torn branches, the morning feels like a dirty window overlooking the backyard of a cheap hotel.
Fallen needles sputter beneath my dizzy feet.
Further away, beside his motorcycle, he lies motionless.
The vibrant colors of yester eve have faded into a distant, pale gray with prickly goosebumps on my skin.
But I do recall a shouting yellow, a high green, all rushing, clashing into one speed that evokes electricity like thunder.
Long time ago did I understand that there’s no use fighting. His will is stronger, his words are stronger. And I’d rather sway. Bend to avoid break. How much further can one bend?
Miles were consumed like years…
I tried to count the number of signs, but I lost at…somewhere.
But the wind was free.
And the wind slapped the smell of oil and rubber into my face.
That was when the thunder came. Like a balloon burst out with too much pressure to contain.
A short crimson streak across the horizon.
Was it the setting Sun?
Someone laughed and someone cried.
My hands and arms felt heavy. My muscles were tight. I felt the need to sleep.
They said it was all gone.
My yesterday’s gone.
People took his body away.
The instrument, so they said, was never found.