These Days

I have grey days – when the world becomes static noise; when tears taste bland to a mouth agape; when solitude is suddenly a virtue.

These days come after a serene morning, with mellow shoulder pains and a little ache in the chest. These days usually start off with refrigerated coffee and jolly conversations – when my mornings are greeted with cloudless skies, brilliant buildings, and sweet crispy muffins. On these days, a pin decides to nick an artery in my neck, and pushes my world to fragment into petty crumbs. On these days, the painted exteriors of skyscrapers melt and showcase heaps of chiseled rock.

Yet I’ve always been naive and ignorant to accurate intuitions. On these days, when my world crumbles into a silent pit, I don’t mourn. I just lie – silent tears falling – with my mouth agape.