“Fall…so shall we fall into the nihil? The nothingness that we feel in the arms of the pale; In the shadow of the grim companion who walks with us” – John Haughm of Agalloch

“Oh farewell you streets of sorrow…Oh farewell you streets of pain; I’ll not return to feel more sorrow, nor to see more young men slain; through the last six years I’ve lived through terror; And in the darkened streets the pain; Oh how I long to find some solace; In my mind I curse the strain” – The Pogues (Streets of Sorrow)

 

I find myself in this familiar territory, staring at the broken twines that once held the yams in the barn together. The insects are silent in their stead, no longer flapping their tiny wings as they soar in the air like angry waves threatening endlessly at the seashore. Days have turned into nights, but my night is still and has refused to crescendo into a beguiling dawn.

They say it is always a struggle before the soul of a good one departs the body. In the final days of anguish, the soul refuses to depart even when the Grim Reaper comes calling. But in your case, you breathed your last too soon.

There was no time for farewells, no opportunities to say our goodbyes. These broken twines I am staring at are the only reminder of how quickly the bond between us shattered. Sing for me, I am definitely dying of thirst; a longing to turn back the hands of time and share one last moment with you. But time is obstinate, so stubborn that it won’t budge and grant me this one last wish. Pigheaded, I call time.

Death is only a chapter in life, craved or not. A horizon, to die is, but it only lasts for so long. I obviously want to let go of the past, but the hardest part of letting go is saying goodbye. I wish I could rip out the pages on which the memories of us are engraved, so there’d be nothing left of us. The lyrics to Oasis’ Wonderwall hit the walls of my mind as I reminisce on the days gone by.

The days trickle so slowly like the sand enclosed in an ancient hourglass, time only prolonging the hurt and betrayal I feel for losing you. With each recall of the glorious time we spent together comes a sharp agonizing pain that pierces through my lonely soul, threatening to choke whatever is left of me.

On your grave, I drop the flowers I am holding. It is a mixture of hibiscus and ixora. I quickly fall on my knees and shed streams of winding tears. Heaven hear me, I wail. And then, I cry some more. My tears slowly upsurge into a riveting climax with a steady beat over the aortic valve, seemingly mimicking the palpitations of a scared and lonely heart. If only my sorrows could build flight of stairs, if only my tears could construct an eternal highway, I will find my way to the divine abode where you are, and bring you back in one piece.

I curse that ignoble folk that caused our separation; the doctor with the grey hair that caused the dearth of our romance. At the laboratory, they claimed they had seen some growths in the middle lobe of my right lung. Cavitations with hilar opacities, he termed it. I sat on the edge of the examination couch as he spoke to me. I guess he lied – that ignoble imp of a doctor. I had to end my romance with you, he proclaimed. It was on a Thursday morning that I received the bad news.

Sorry for being a coward, my dear. But I had to hearken to the words of the doctor with the grey hair, and took what was left of you and buried inside the makeshift grave at the backyard. I knew it was so disrespectful of me not to give you a befitting burial, but the announcement came too soon. Still, I wasn’t, yet I spied a wailing cherub.

There was no time for farewells, no opportunities to say our goodbyes. I pushed you away when you came calling. I let go of your hand when you held mine firmly and I allowed you to fall to your death. You stared death into the eyes and death welcomed you with a sardonic smile. A coward, I was, for believing the doctor with the grey hair. Instead of taking a leap of faith with you and plunging into the unknown future, I got rid of you so quickly. Shame on me!

So as I sit on this lonely veranda where you once kept me company, overlooking the frail shrubs that have become bedraggled, I reminisce on the days gone by. Shriveled and lonely, these shrubs remind me of what I’ve become since you left. There are multiple lesions on the other lobes, the doctor with the grey hair told me last week. The hemoptysis and dyspnea have worsened. I have already become the ghost of me. Soon, I will be gone with the wind.

As the times roll by, I gradually struggle to deal with the demons that threaten to overwhelm my soul and ultimately incapacitate me, allowing the silent lambs within me to rear their heads. I add a dark ambience to this sinister message bottled up in my chest, and hope to end this difficult situation on a positive note.

Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the good times we shared together. The first time I kissed you and took a long drag of your lips on mine, and the puffs I let out as you gently caressed my soul. Thank you for the sorrows you made me forget so quickly every time I rolled you in my hands before the long kiss goodnight.

Thank you for giving me all of you during these twelve long years. I called you Onyinye, because you were definitely God’s gift to this forlorn world, bringing me peace whenever I needed you.

I will always love you,

My Good Friend and Lover,

Mary Jane, Nee Miss Blunt!

 

In Memory Of The Lost Ones!

Now Playing: Suicide Season by Bring Me The Horizon

Word to Mutha: This work is STRICTLY the opinion of the writer. No Love Lost; No Love Found…It is what it is!

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