The night I didn’t kill you

a story

The night I didn’t kill you 
Was a typical Tuesday night:
They streamed, like always, a movie in the small cinema in our dorms.
It was about a woman 
Bad woman who got in fight 
With a married man who used her, and as the moral dictates -she’d lost.

I remember being sad for her, being mad,
While you walked out the cinema, holding hands
With your official girlfriend, and your crooked smile I loved,
Leaving me all alone. 
I was vague on details of your murder;
It was to take place in some attic above
Some lone classrooms, after I lure you in,
After I lead you on.

The security was lax then; It was before the blow up,
They’d sit and chat and make their rounds, 
Every hour or so.
We might be able to sneak past
Only I had not figured out the rest,
How to rely on your lust
After what you’d said when we talked last,
Seemed like a second, or a century ago.

You told me you’d do everything
To scrap off every remain
Of dark and dangerous me, 
From your brilliant brain,
Using whatever therapeutic approach,
Whatever source of light.

You asked me then: what direction you go?
And I said feebly: to the left
And you answered coldly: then I’ll go to the right. 

I was vague on details of your murder before,
But then somehow it became glaringly clear,
There’d be two corpses, one real, 
And one, still walking around.
I took away your breath, 
I couldn’t take your life, 
Without leaving my soul dead in the ground.

You never knew all that. 
It all transpired in my head
All skeletons are safely in the closet, that attic is empty still.
You stayed alive and brilliant, 
Forever right. 
And me, I went to the left,
Forever wrong, guilty, mad and ill.

This story takes too long; I’m wrapping it all up,
That was the only time I planned to kill, 
And what have we got?
Like in that song, sky looks on us 
With joy and grief from above,
Sky needs us just as we are, 
Angel and scoundrel, you choose who’s what. 
. 







 

*****

It was supposed to be a story, sorry
But I'm exhausted, crazy, numb, will it ever get better?
How one can write a decent story
When he can't bring himself to write a letter

I try to float in a boat
That might hit soon rock bottom and sink,
And all I've got are my stupid fingers,
Stupid feather, and stupid ink.

So I'm gonna splash the ink around
Until I'm not swept with waves, buried under sand,
And when it comes, oh well,
I am still april, without an end.

****

PS there are allusions to three different songs in this post, -one visual, two in the text. If you think I should name them-give me a sign? Thank you 🪄