Degradation

By Hussain Kachwala

It rained two hours past the standing hand of midnight. 

I saw two crows that died on my way to college the next day. 

A cat had her final rites on the same path, covered in a sheet of white, with  some flowers. 

I didn't pay them much mind, paid my respects and moved on. I was late for a  lecture. 

I gave my exam on a Saturday. It rained. 

I wrote answers about my favourite filmmakers, forgetting everything as the ink  left my veins, questioning if I ever knew them in the first place. 

The sky looked like it was split open, breaking the barriers between the physical  and ethereal planes. 

I was just happy that the heat had turned down a notch. 

Her eyes whisper to me as my brain leaks from each crevice. 

There's noise outside, but at this rate, I'd trigger my tinnitus over seeing her  remembrance.

The sun is overhead. My world stays asleep. The ringing in my ears is the only  thing I hear. 

Mailboxes have stopped being useful. No one writes anymore besides utilities. No one writes to the utilities. 

I saw a broken down car on the street. Has been there for years now. People  have stopped noticing. 

Does coal feel sorrow when we burn it and not care? 

My eyes hurt. I want to sleep but I can't. I have something to prove to myself. What it is, I have no idea. 

I don't feel real anymore.

By Hussain Kachwala