He Questions

He questions if it is over.

Nobody actually ended anything, but it all feels so foreign and strange to him. It feels like a void filled with conversations that never took place and hurts that were never tended to. In his mind he hears the unspoken accusations and feels the missing touches. His lips feel the ghost of longed for kisses that never come, kisses they themselves are reluctant to give.


He questions how it happened when just a short time ago everything seemed to be so different. He ponders all of this as the heavy rains from the monsoon pour down. The street below quickly becomes a creek and minutes later that creek becomes a stream. All too quickly the road is nowhere to be seen, a memory of what was, the knowledge of what is. It is there, just below the surface of the muddy waters. The road that is so riddled with pot holes is now a smooth river, the water hiding the damage and decay.

He stands on the terrace holding a hot cup of tea in the china cup. A souvenir of happier days. The rain pours down. The water rises. The doubts and thoughts and disappointments float to the surface. Leaves frolic and race in the flowing water below. Do they know they are dying? Do they have any idea where they are heading?

He blames himself for the way things are and wonders if they actually ever were the way he remembers or if he merely remembers the way he wishes it would have been. He wonders if perhaps that first kiss, stolen on a stormy Paris night was the beginning of the end. The ending written long before the story began and he, just an actor saying the lines he never wrote, lines he doesn’t fully understand, words he doesn't want to say. These thoughts torment him and the tea grows cold in the china cup. The cliché almost makes him laugh, but the thought of smiling, much less laughing is too painful. A cruel trick of emotions playing themselves out against each other, each cancelling the other out.

He questions if it is over.
He questions what to do.
He questions.