The cactus’s flowers are now dead, the red cactus flowers that rose proudly on the river bank are dried up under the sun, turning grey, forgotten.
But the scar…
The scar from the cactus’s thorn is still there, lying irritatingly on the left side of the middle finger.
The undone sketch is now lying silently under the table, covered in dust, the charcoal line is now fading, nothing left but a blurry line that used to be the back of the sword.
But the idea…
The sketch’s idea is still stuck somewhere in million grains of sand inside the neck of an hourglass.
The tuna mayo sandwich is now finished, never be made again, the spicy flavor at the tip of the tongue is disappeared, the burning skin is replaced, all new, feels like nothing has ever happened.
But the taste…
The taste is there, the taste, still new. brings you back to the kitchen with the black floor, puts you on the kitchen table next to the sink, halts the time.
You, sitting there, waving your hand on the air, catching all the memories fracture that are falling down on the cold floor.
Stuck there in between, being left alone, with them, and a crack.