Seconds

I woke up today and saw my pillow. It's been with me for ages. It's scent brings me back to childhood.
The soft pale sunlight touches my skin and I am oblivious to time and how late I maybe running.
I look for my phone just to check on the time. I could care less. But still, I had to.
I curse my timid self for not minding the alarm clock I left in the room next to this. My real bedroom. I wonder how it would look after the repainting.
My right hand somehow found everything in the table next to me, except my phone. I give up, sit up and search. It's beside my pillow.
Darn. Ten past six.
I'm late.
I rummage the dusty parqueted floor for my slippers.
Scratch that. It was somebody else's.
Amidst the three pairs all mercilessly lying on the floor, mixed up and dizzily paired, I still opted for the one I'm so fond of wearing. It was his.

It still feels familiar. Not the wearing of his slippers, but the feeling you get from it. It still feels as though we're a part of each other. It feels so familiar that I don't think I would ever withdraw this from my memory bank. It feels like this is an extension of his body, his feet. He wore this. He wore this if not everyday. It's not mine, but I still slip it on.

I look in the mirror and I see this face of a man who's unsure. He looks as if he's been confident of something he abruptly found out fleeting. That's it. I am fleeting. I am this man, I remember. Work. Damn.

I get out of the house feeling, well, okay.

I look at the sky, as I usually do, upon walking my street. It's a shade of gray today. Pale dirty gray. I wonder if I'm wearing the right clothing. Please don't rain.

The train is having it's usual routine of vainly malfunctioning. Traveling everyday to work, for work (or whatever suits you), hassle-free, smug-free and comfy is now an urban myth. These days, you grab your Excalibur and fight for space, so to speak. Ouch. Please stop drilling my feet with heels.

All walks of life, a sea of people. I wonder if we all have this unanimous goal to go to work and just live.
I text my boss to say I'm gonna be late for work, again.
I wonder if there are people who just choose to continue living life, going to work instead of letting depression eat their time and just stay at home, making it an excuse. People go to work, live their life and still dwell in the loss of their boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or someone else. The train door stops in front of me and I see my reflection. The man who's now unsure. I step in.

Bumps and endless pushing just to get in, how ethereal. I'm a fucking designer for crying out loud. I make earnest living. Earnest money. Stop harassing my outfit. They could care less. The world could care less. And so I get into my space, all tired and outfit-harassed.

Time seem to pass by slowly. You wait for the next station just as soon as you get off the last. It's very frustrating to watch the scenery through the train window slowly decreasing speed, while everything outside the car train goes on. You stop and yet the world outside your compartment seems to go on, if not a little bit faster than usual. You think it's unfair. Well it's cliche. I am anxious at this point. I try to divert myself from thinking of being late, or of being left behind, or of time. I can't think of any. Anything that won't involve a hint of his image. It's as though everything roots back to my melancholic state of life. The train picks up speed just in time.

I get off my compartment and out the station. I walk past beggars and food stalls. I look up the sky as I usually do. It's bright and sunny now. Just the right sunlight, peeking from the thin pale gray feathery clouds. It's not so bad after all. I breathe deep and felt a little more than okay.

This isn't so bad after all.

A leaf fell from a tree as I walk under it.
And I remember him.
And like cold vermilion dipped in warm water, cold truth sip inside my head, clawing it's way through my chest.
Every gust that pushes the leaf from the tree, every sunlit tree that adorns this sidewalk, every sidewalk that leads corporate slaves from the car trains, every car train that delivers apathetic people like me, is every second closer to our parting time. And suddenly, everything becomes normal again.

How could you not let go of someone who haven't even been yours?

No one in this world is owned by anyone. There are no picket fences for the heart nor soul. You could not call someone your own, but you can give yourself to someone, as their own.

I just continue to walk.

We had that time. We had that time in our lives that we let each other own us. It's not long. It's not even long enough to surpass our desperate yearning, and yet it is so hard for me to give up that one fleeting moment in my life. That one fleeting moment when we're under the night sky, with fireflies dancing in pine trees and the sound of waves gently kissing the shore. That one fleeting moment when we couldn't see anything, not even our faces, but just silhouettes of it against the moonlight and stars. We had that one fleeting moment, a world where no one exists but us.

As I sit in my office chair, I hear Christmas carols in the radio, in the office next to mine.

Every second is one second closer to him leaving. My head is like a warehouse, and at the backdoor of my warehouse you'll find hope and wishful thinking. I am not much of a fan when it comes to years of waiting, well I don't know anybody who is, but there are some things in me that cannot comprehend the will of my heart. My head is like a warehouse, and the delivery van is my heart.

For now, all I do is wait.
And love him until fate snatches me back to the fleeting world.