Hungover

The year has been blank so far, with no traces of you on the calendar.

Last year, you made a series of red-letter days in the months when the days were just a passing and yet what was happening in them were more important than you and I. There were days last year, in a row, filled with hattricks of your bumping into me on a busy working day. And there were days of the week, filled with nothing but your talks, while the rest that remained of the world passed my memory like a wisp of breath that escapes my throat on this chilling January morning. As last year came to a close, everything was about you.

A new decade kick-started with so much blankness, you've sunk into the depths of me from where I can only hear the sound of your voice and hardly feel your fingers anymore. That blankness has also crept into my brain. It leaves me aching, forgetting, waiting perhaps for a time when people stop thinking I'm not who I used to be.