The rickshaw driver is playing our song. “Embrace me; this beautiful night may not remain…”

I feel your pulse elevating intermittently, like silent shrieks of a crow. There comes the lump in your throat. I’m choking up too, but only because you’ve stuffed me into this idiotic metal box. It's strange, but I feel… non-living. I feel I’m not the person I was to you before. And once upon a twilit evening, I was everything.

Who am I now? Do you even have a clear definition for me anymore? Am I a bastard stench off the pavement, that you neither know nor care enough to place? Am I a pimple on your forehead you want to hide under carefully combed blades of hair? Am I not valuable enough?

You’re crying, and the song got over more than a minute ago.

I am a sculpture; an intricate marriage of paper and memory. I am the stray, omnipresent dust kissing the floor of a rickshaw. I am a desaturated, nonnimus house that whizzes past a vehicle, overlooked, demure, but immediately noticed if absent. I am the steady army of winking specks smothering a noir film. I am unnoticed. I am delicately ignored. And yet, the infant tears tracing an acidic railroad down your neck whisper but one fact.

I am indispensable.