The awkward moment when you knew you can’t do it not because you don’t want to, but simply because giving false hope is worse than slapping me with a lie.
Why hold on when hanging on is like killing yourself by walking on a tightrope
fully knowing that a circus act was never a part of your hidden talent.
Those times when falling from a trapeze is less painful than standing up after living on bended knees.
Why is it so selfish to say you had enough yet so heroic not to forgive?
Isn’t it ironic that the moment you leave, you still look back?
Not because you can’t move on but because you left your pride at the backdoor.
And you can’t take out all your dirty linens through the main door
and wash it in public.
I remember you saying you can’t wash your dirty linens in public.
Of course you can. Why worry about privacy when you proudly show
everything you eat in facebook publicly?
Social media gossip is no longer an old rumor mill tactic.
Nowadays, a hype marketing system in distorting reality will give you
a hefty profit than any form of false advertising.
So why worry?
No amount of damage control can cover a leaking faucet
when water is dripping endlessly and i’m not talking about
the crocodile tears dripping from your angelic eyes
while you’re wearing that crocodile shirt she gave you last christmas.
But why am i rambling? Just for a single reason that the moment i leave
i can still see your crocodile tears and that hurts.
Not because you’re crying but because for a single moment
i would rather be pained by your brutal honesty
than be consoled by your superb acting.
I’m done with the letter but wait, Did she really give him that lacoste shirt,
the green crocodile one?
My friend answered “Nope. I gave that to him.”
Deep inside i’m a bit confused.
Something doesn’t add up.
Will i send the email now?
She answered “yes.”
What’s his email address?
Her reply surprised me, “No not to him.”
To whom? To his wife or to his recent mistress?
She said, “Send it to my email but under Jane’s name.”
Confused but before i can ask her why,
she turned her back and walk away.
I wrote the letter.
I remember her email.
I know Jane is her sister.
** An excerpt from my not so worn out diary.
– Joel F.
Kindly Click This and Read At The Airport. Thanks.
Copyright © 2015 Joys of Joel by Joel F. All Rights Reserved.