You remember I called you an 'angel' in a coupla poems I wrote for you? I asked Donna. Yes, she said, quietly. And then, a very long pause ensued.
Donna and I have been friends since forever. It is amazing how the word bliss defines itself when I talk to her. I used to transform that same bliss in to words; words that defied happiness. The list of poems/essays continued to count up to the uncountable. The list meant sanctification and satisfaction that came via that bond. But just when the bond began to boast of how eternal it could be, eternal met a tear-block. Donna announced her departure from the present. The Reason just puffed off the mind, hazed the heart and left me to decide if the teardrops were happy or sad. Did my list of poems begin to choke? I thought, tears hitting my cheek like bullets.
As we sat together under the tree, where we first met, she broke the long pause by placing a white sheet of paper in my hand, which read 101. She was gone long before I cracked the code.
Having retired to bed, I turned to poem#101 in my diary:
What's angel's colour?
That binds us forever.
Eyes yearn for that pleasure.
I'd shed Red to treasure.
With Donna gone, I had to be content with images of her in a white attire.