The last day that we met, I reminisce of the Sun over the signal tower. The Sun of November casting shadows on everything I've come to love. Thursday. The 24th. This place isn't even that pretty as you lied that day, you know. It wasn't even the ugly palm trees next to this place, not the beacon from the signal tower, not you. I was scared and fearful and doubting. I've sat on those stairs only twice: that day and the day before it.
Have you ever wanted to stay alive? For whatever reasons? I wanted to get out of this boring heck of a place. This country, I mean. You know what I mean right? The bigoted people, the unclean streets, the loud cars, no passageway and the endless scorching Sun. I brought home maps from the last day. New Zealand was it? I had wanted out but I never knew where and how. I know how, but, the chances and odds are against me. I have to ace exams and I have to stay up late until I puke coffee on my mum's sweater. I have to have those plus signs beside all of my "A's" if I want out. I wanted to be alive and well for the very moment I step on foreign lands where no one knows my name. And I can start over.
Well, today's December. 16 days until Christmas and rain is scarce. This place is so barren even my heart falls faster than the rain does. The maps had weird places all over them. Oparara. Karamea. Paringa. Haast. Kaikoura. Hey, doesn't it makes our place's names seems dull and common? I wish our place had weird names. Maybe better names could disguise how the potholes on the local tars makes me feel.
The magazine had all these colourful gardens and lakes, the cliffs were monotone and defined in their stands. The models were smiling happily with blushed cheeks and their arms, like wings, spreaded. Their skin was warm, slowly kissed by their Sun. The places are beautiful and they had my heart in pieces. The places are too beautiful and they had my heart.
I wish I was there.
It's December and I am 16. I am sitting home and all I wanted was to live this pathetic life but all I'm seeing in these places was us, kissing. We were kissing in each and every places I'm seeing. You were in front of the row of shop in Broadway Street in Reefton, tanned and well. You twirled me around at Monro Beach. You kissed me in gold-rush town, coal town, Westport at dawn. Adrenaline rush. Summer. Life's pretty pathetic. I bet it's about to snow in Greymouth where you held my hands while we strolled the night in front of that vegetarian cafe.
Soon, another December ought to replace me. I won't be seeing all these places I learned to love within this deadbeat town. I know, I know. Letting go is only as painful as you let it get to you. The red twinkle of the signal tower beacons its presence in my conscious thoughts. You, would have loved to be let go, and yet we're solemnly kissing in my head.
I hope one day we'll meet and love is not the only thing we can excuse to each other. I hope it'll be in a place where no one knows my name.
