Femy

Dear Sweet K

Have you heard of the river that swallows lovers here? I doubt you have. Even Raisin Bran’s mouth does not run that fast. Listen, right now, I am your Usain Bolt. I am telling you everything as fast as I can reach the finish line. Lest Raisin Bran beats me to it. Lest he spices everything up to a mixed masala pulp. Lest he sprinkles shades of truth in there. You know Raisin Bran can do that right, and when later you tell people he did that, and they ask him why he did that, he just wipes his mouth, washes his hands and acts all sweet, like the real dried raisin in him should be. Like nothing ever happened and you just made all of this up and everything dirty sticks on you like head lice, don’t you? You know head lice want your blood, like everyone will if they think you made this up right? So, allow me, to be the one who tells you.
Have you been to that raging river? That river were lovers drown but none ever float. That river were everyone is weighed down like you and me. No one knows how heavy they really weigh. The scales are screwed, unbalanced. They don’t calibrate well and when you try to balance them they slide you down. They slide you down, into that treacherous river that meanders like a slithering snake searching for bleeding lovers.
The river runs from the top left corner of Laventille through the thick carpet of the savannah. When it reaches Tunapuna it just nibbles on the rocks, kissing them ever so lightly like it is not that eager to engage in a scandalous French kiss with the stony hard rocks. It waits there: comfortably, patiently, feeling the rocks, playfully teasing. It seems sometimes, it does not want to make out. It seems to be shy, struggling with intimate affection especially in everyone’s presence. This river reminds me of you. Its heart is trembling inside. Fearful for what is to come.