Nee, ik weet het allemaal ook niet. Ik ga niet eens meer proberen m’n freewritings uit te leggen of in te leiden. Klik maar gewoon verder als je geïnteresseerd bent in m’n baksels.
I wake up to the smell of coffee. There’s a white mug on the night table. Your lipstick left its mark. Red indicating where your lips touched the cold stone. I lick mine. The dryness in my throat is unbearable, so the first thing I manage to do is stumble to the sink and put my lips to the tap. I splash the sleep away. Then I crawl to the kitchen. Let myself fall onto the chair. Stare out of the window. Plan to get up. Stare again. Plan to get up. Stare. Repeat. My head hurts like hell’s celebrating carnival in it.
What the fuck happened yesterday?
I try to recall, but it’s no use. Clouds are covering the memories. Some pieces are just plain black. I remember you, only you. You and your soft lips brushing mine. I swallow. Erasing memories is not much easier than recovering them.
I close my eyes, which is not helpful either. When I open them again, I notice a small piece of paper. Laying on the table. A ray of sunshine kisses its edge. I stretch my arm and grab it. You have the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen. It’s messy, and curly, and I can imagine how you’d write – sitting on this same chair, lips tight together and hair knotted up. The pen skating over the paper.
Swallow again. Close my eyes. Open. And – close. Now open. Open. I try to read, but the letters just dance around. Some voice is saying I should have food. So I obey. Why defy yourself?
After some cereal I return to the bedroom. There’s my mug. My mug with your lips on it. The touch of your lips.
You left your mark.