It’s five in the morning.
The alarm goes off,
Besides me sleeps a stranger,
A familiar one.
I looked at her face,
Her nakedness,
Her closed eyes,
I had to go.
Leave.
I grabbed my keys,
Closed the door.
Ran to my motorcycle.
The chilly wind was rather comforting,
I kicked my motorcycle once,
No sound
Again.
A little sound.
Again.
She roared.
I ride home.
The sun was hiding in the corner like
the kid playing hide and seek with his grandfather.
I reach home.
The garbageman was picking up yesterday’s garbage,
He had forgotten to take mine.
I snailed to the kitchen,
Found my milk and coffee.
I fired up the milk,
Tore small sachets of caffeine
And sprinkled them on my mug,
I looked at the boiling milk,
It was like the girl who tells you she is fine,
The wait seemed like an eternity.
I looked outside the kitchen window,
It was blue,
A black crow cries,
It was pink,
A man smokes a cigarette,
It was white,
There stood a white cross.
The morning smelled like cold.
I watch the old man at the tea shop,
Pouring tea from one glass to another,
Another glass to one,
Up and down
And up and down.
My milk overflowed,
I cursed the sky.
The kitchen was ugly.
White salt spilled over water.
Beer bottles on the floor,
Sad and empty.
Lizards on the wall.
Brown and white.
Unfinished food from yesterday,
‘why don’t they ever take the garbage out’
I thought.
The kitchen sink was full of stinking water.
It had clogged.
It was green.
I hated green.
I poured milk into the mug,
The whitness had turned brown,
Like the bark of dead trees which no one knew of.
Up and down and up…
Oh wait.
I took the half empty honey jar,
Opened her up,
She was filled with dead ants,
And half dead ants
And quarter dead ants.
‘These sons of bitches’
I muttered.
They got what they wanted,
They had gotten more,
They must have died with happy faces,
Bliss and heaven and God and death.
I poured her on the coffee anyways,
I didn’t care,
‘The heat will kill them’
I thought.
I walk to my rocking chair.
Sit,
Listened to old tunes,
Washed up old tunes,
Forgotten old tunes.
I open my red book,
Old like the music I hear.
I sip coffee.
Once.
Twice.
I sip coffee and some dead ants.
Thrice.
Coffee again.
And i scribble:
‘It’s five in the morning’.