Limbo by Sam McPherson

It is true that I no longer have a place in your heart, but here we are, alone in your room once more. That is how it is these days. You call me in the midst of your sorrows, and I swoop in through the open door as if I’d never left. Ah, a convenient arrangement, perhaps. There’s a certain utility to my presence that you can’t quite put to rest. Like a once familiar ghost who blows in from a corridor, holding a candle to the darkness, hushing one to sleep. “Now, now,” I say, “everything will be alright. You know as well as I, that this misery will not last forever”. You nod reluctantly and roll on your side to sleep. But, of course, I know full-well that I am extinguished in your dreams, and so to shield myself from such a dismissal, I slip out of the room just as easily as I had entered. Alas, I’m growing weary of this limbo. Just when I may feel the light of a new world against my skin, you immediately halt my advance, pointing me back to the same wooden box in the dirt. Quite fitting, I think: our love was only deep because we’d spent a lifetime digging each-other’s graves.

Sam McPherson is a budding writer from East London.

@books_man_sam

Painting – Villa by the Sea by Arnold Böcklin (1872)

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