Rosaline Honeycock

Breaking fresh ka’ak over my laptop, ripping pieces off the loop and munching away, munching away. I seal the bag after I’m done. Air tight. Find sesame seeds scattered across my desk; all over my thighs. The sight amuses me. Bare thighs covered in sesame seeds. The thought amuses me more. Jashua hunched over his beloved, pecking seeds, kissing exposed flesh. A gnawing sensation. A white leather glove hands him a cordless phone from off-stage. ‘It’s your heart’ she whispers with a raspy voice into the receiver. She holds back a fit of tears. ‘It’s your heart.’ The line goes dead. Silence stretches thin like the waning shadow of a graphite pencil till the shaft snaps with a sudden jolt and thunderous paranoia sets in. He’s gone. The realization hits you like a closed fist to the right eye. He’s gone. Chris Brown knees you in the gut and knocks the wind from your lungs. He’s gone. Getting beat by a fella-ella, his absence shifts the cosmos and causes the heavens to collide.He’s gone. A disorientation which steals the ground beneath your feet; steals into the depths of your heart on a lonely night and shakes you with such a force you can no longer ignore the oppressive, unforgiving fact: He’s gone.