(de)composition

the moment he brushed the flakes of scattered dead skin from the bathroom sink, he knew that the old face, punched with failed expectations, bruised with the claws of desolation and stained with crossroads of dry tear paths, will be gone for long to the pits of the blackhole of obscurity.

he knew his face well- from every angle, from every feature, from every pimple mark, from every pore, to every strand of hair. he knew how to twitch a simple muscle to feign innocence, sadness, happiness or fear. he knew the right angles of his face in favor of the lighting condition and the situation. he knew his face too well- not until he fell face flat right smack into the grounds of love.

a couple of hours more and he will see his new face. form is still not evident but he is sure that it will be different this time. perhaps it will be punch, bruise and stain resistant. but no one can really tell.

the only thing certain was his renewed perspective regarding expectations. expect all of the possibilities. it’s like expecting the unexpected. then he thought, what’s the point? why even bother expecting at all?

he washed all the dead skin down the drain.