Melancholy is the name you gave to the aftermath of a mess your summer love had left you in. You waited for him at the bus stop in the scorching May heat. Sunrays devoured your body like hungry scavengers and the tears dried and became salt, leaving a bad texture on your lips. But he did not show up. Tap. Tap. Tap. Send. “I think we shouldn’t see each other anymore,” he left with a solitary text and burns all over your skin as parting gifts.
Your mother waited for the burnt skin to peel itself off but how the fuck she was supposed to know that the scars go deeper than just a mere layer of skin. She sang you lullabies and hummed you a song of old while the July clouds poured down rains in sync with your uncontrollable tears. You walked by the graveyard where the pretty flowers started blooming in all their glory. And you pondered why can’t life bloom flowers inside you when it is so kind to a bunch of dead people.
I met you in October that year when the wind was too kind to humans and not so much for the trees. Every gush of it would make your hair dance, raising my heartbeat. But you wore all the autumn over your body and shed parts of you every time I breathed near you. You walked barefoot on the grave of the leaves in hopes of soaking up some life from them. I wondered why you asked life from the dead just like you still ask for love from the person who left you without a thought.
And the December blizzard arrived, giving false hopes to naked trees of a temporary cover. We sat near the fireplace of my home to and you placed your numb lips on mine. For a moment, my soul became a pariah for my body. But you broke the kiss and ran back to your home barefoot, transferring whatever life the kiss gave you back to the grave of leaves. Tap. Tap. Tap. Send. “I can’t do it – the moving on.” The text became your parting gift to me along with my pariah soul. Seasons moved on since he left you, as they were destined to. You never did, as you chose to.