When I woke up this morning; rain was cutting lace into steel curtains outside. Smell of wet metal seeped through.
I turned around to look for my words and found them trembling on the edge of the bed. They were feverish and sweaty, clammy lumps lying listless on the bed covers. Large, wet eyes; distant and empty. Blood and tears smeared across their faces. Like beaten puppies.
I am worried that it might be too late. That I have been leaving them for too long in this empty room. To wait for me alone. Without a tree blossom to see through the window, or the voices of small boys playing with marbles to hear from the outside, or the scent of fresh washing coming from the neighbour’s washing line.
And what if it is too late?
It will be impossible to keep shapes of anything. Outlines of objects and memories will disappear like images in old sepia photographs. I would not be able to recall the shape of a white oleander my grandmother planted in the front of our house when I was five. Or a shape of an island under the rain in summer. Or a shape of a street that led to a school with long glass door and a playground at the back. Where kisses where shaped for the first time. Or a shape of a shrapnel scattered in the middle of a city square. While everyone ran.
I must take better care of my words. Because they are shape makers. Of my world.