I retrace my forlorn footsteps.
I exit from a subterranean labyrinth at the green path. The last time I was here, I watched you disappear into the decaying mouth from which I have just ascended. I turn to my left and walk towards the road of little towers, each step more hesitant than the former. Inhaling a cigarette, the ones you smoke, I wait on the corner. A few more steps, a few more steps.
‘Why do we burn? Is it because we dared to hold hands with God, or because we hold each other?’
I don’t believe in God.
I don’t believe in falling stars.
I don’t believe in ecstasy and I don’t believe in love.
I walk down the road of little towers, ruins of buildings lining each side. I stand outside your hostile door and my finger hovers over the bell.
I have already died by this point in time. There was a certain day, a particular moment, but the less I consider it, the less real it is. It had not been an event. There is no anniversary and there is no time for people to mourn. I have gone from here, and I live as I choose. I have gone from here, but I am not dead even though I have died.
I look up at these walls of contested emotions, my finger still hovering. I briefly glimpse my distorted reflection in the silver curvature of the bell, but I no longer recognise my face. I look at your windows, my gaze unable to penetrate into the rooms containing our words. After all, it is words that are the cause of my masks.