bye

As a matter of principle, I never cry.

I don’t know how this all started. It simply became an unfaltering, deep-seated axiom.

I never let salt run down my cheeks; I never let it rest at the corners of my mouth. I don’t like it because it’s hot. Most especially.

I, as a matter of principle, prefer cold. I choose to be cold. I am iced.

But nothing about that ordinary day was cold. It was blindingly clear, the sun madly ablaze, neurotic, fierce. Pink umbrella in my right hand, black phone on the left, a certain conversation, and not one hello. Then a paroxysmal murmur, then a ripple, then lots of ripples, concentric circles, then the first motions of a wave. The sea will be salty, we know that. But I don’t. As a matter of principle.

You had the nerve to smile at me then. Just like when you told me that smashing oxygenated balloons across our bodies with plastic rackets made from China was playing badminton. Just like when you told me that you would give me a roasted cow when I am able to turn that applause into gold.

Then the smile was gone. You finally let your body freeze, turning into chunks of cold, cold ice.

Plastic turns into metals, but the roasted cows did not come.

The sea has now immersed itself into the ocean bathed by the sun. My principles have betrayed me, it is not cold. I am not ice.

You are unfair.

I will miss you. As a matter of principle.