My favourite drug is melancholy
Out of all drugs, out of all mornings.
I wake up it’s a bad day, bad morning bad night bad hour bad minute bad week good day bad hour bad hour good weekend bad week good morning bad night.
I’m my restless eyes flashes the fragrant aroma of memories, false memories, the aroma I don’t smell is dreams, the videotape I didn’t record are nightmares.
I see her in my dreams
Every day now
It’s been going on for days already.
I see her doing things she never did and will never do.
I know it’s her but I can’t prove it. I remember being with her presence but not her face. I remember the close up of her precious smile, but those aren’t her lips.
That’s not how she dresses, that’s not how she speaks. None of it is her. But only the instance of knowing it is her.
And is it really her is fragments of her are mismatched?
Is she a collage of the people I loved, but not the one they were but what I thought they were.
I know it’s her, but what is her name?
A past lover is…. Not a person.
Not this one.
This girls is a ghost. A false idea of what I think is a real person, but that person not only doesn’t exist as now, even in past she wasn’t even real. This ghost. This apparition that haunts me on sleepless nights, this demon that presses over my chest and suffocates me. It’s not real.
And why do I adore her then?
Why do I absolutely devote with passion and burning longing something that my subconscious decided to mold?
Is it the missing and the despair of a person gone not because she left, but because the girl that could have taken that form disappeared into thin particles of dust.
And I crave her
I long her
I miss her
And she doesn’t even exist
And I don’t need her
I was once without her and much more times before she was forming.
Why is it me… gulping and swallowing every drop of that sweet pain elixir? That tasty caramel of punishment and self pity?
why is my favourite girl a phantom?
Why is the puncturing knife, holden by my hand?
Why is my favourite drug, melancholy?