We’re playing a game, a game of chess, you, a shadow, and I. But you are me, and I am you, so how can we three be playing a game for two? I hear you scream, you look at me, my face showing nothing but an open mouth and greed.
There is greed for the world, of a screwed up place, to account for belongings and no one’s mistakes. There is greed for death, for burial underground, for a resting place in the peaceful dark.
You are white, you make the first move. Pawn to f3, I move mine to e5. Strategy wins, anticipating moves, I know nothing about chess although there is another part of my mind that does. It knows clevers, it is sharp, yet it does not know about the dark. Time has faded into ash, the absence of light came all too fast. There is greed for the game, to checkmate the opposer, but to know that no one else could win you over. There is greed for the life that the you part of the mind knows, of what you feel, of how you’ve grown. The me part stuck in a solemn abyss, not worth all it has gained.
The shadow, contradicting, a black mark, stain, playing as innocent white in a game. It chose, behind our back, the pawn of irreproachable nature, perceived less likely of attack. The shadow is there, hitting time, hearing me scream out of your mouth.
From the arch of a shadow hidden on the wall a whispered, “checkmate,” makes our skin crawl. Strategy wins, because he knew it all. Knew the moves and smarts, all from being a flower on the wall. Watching, perceiving, greedy of life, of being able to walk on two feet and feel alive.
We played a game with life, we played a game with the night. We played with a shadow on the wall, you and I, we lost it all.
... Checkmate.
