Black

A fictional snippet of some kind of sadness.

There is a marker in my mind, under hats and hair and the borders of realism. It is in the shadows I breathe each day. I see the photos you tried to burn; the only colourful things about you are held in your hands, in each snapshot. A logo on a cup from some silly teaching convention -- "BOARD WIPER" it reads in bold, sky-coloured print. Like all that you are is some glorified janitor who happens to wield the terrific gift of words, of books, but never have the chance to use them.

My memory flicks to your smile, grotesquely inadequate (at least when captured on film) for someone so bright as you. Next to your arm (elbow on the chair) is a folder, and, oh, aren't you prepared for your lively day at work? And you come home to me with bags full of cracking hope for the promise of your students, and you sigh. I want to greet you with kind reassurance, but my foot catches on table legs, socks slipping a little from their place as you kick off your shoes and force a chuckle.

My mind flits back to a mode of emotion, and I think of how I felt. Large clips of my recollection are missing; it's a flickering light switch that's off more than on. So it's right then that I realise, I need to make a list of what you mean to me. No time to waste, but my mind holds no pens, only flat unused pencils, and I scramble for a pencil sharpener, but it's jammed, and there go my thoughts but I never want to forget you.

The wheels turn, but it's no use. I miss you, but all I have are photographs, even as you're next to me. Neurons sick, cords that don't reach sockets. I want to shout at you through loudspeakers, but the end of the extension cord just won't extend, and the amplifier is wet. It's too dangerous, at the bottom of a screen underwater. I'll drown for you, whoever you are.