The air was cold, but something
'bout it felt like home somehow.
I am a dead corpse with my face inside these maroon walls, embalmed inside an obscure but strangely familiar place. If I was here a few years back then, I would've put my hands on the jet black rails of the stairs because I liked how my hands would smell of metal. How it smells much like blood you'd get on your tissues. We sat on those stairs on rainy days when we were kids, figuring out how we were supposed to turn out to be and who we wanted ourselves to be. But we never knew ourselves any better, just more confusion and we made friends with the delirium inside us. It was nice to have a friend to fall with when I slipped down the corridor on a stormy day when the floor was flooded ankle-height and I walk quite fast those days and you were laughing but it's okay because I did too. Next month, you told me how fascinating it is to be dead. It was as if being dead was more than being dead. "...and after dead, is forgotten."
We put our hands on the endless, tall maroon walls (because back then we were 3'9) and hum the multiplying tables with the echoes of different voices everyday. We spew out numbers like mantras everyday when we were 9. We've sat in the cold bus on cold days together, with our mouths shut and that Tuesday your lips were bleeding. You were biting on it too hard and it didn't make it any better that the bus driver pull on the brakes too suddenly. I know you never liked the smell of rain but it's comforting to me. So that explains why you're always quiet during Novembers, and why you talk quite a lot in Junes.
The last time I walked through the door of your warm home, there was nothing I want to remember anymore.
