Drippings
There is still a bit, I tell him, just a little bit, left in me, trickling out, it’s still trickling out of me, but soon there won’t be any left. It’s leaking, I tell him, the person sat opposite, trickling away, down my leg, pooling around my feet and across the pavement. It’s all that’s left of me, this trickling, and once it’s all trickled away there won’t be anything more. All that I’ll leave of me will be the puddle I leave behind. I’ll leave all that’s left of me behind on the ground. The ground: a fitting place for something fallen. It’s where I stand. It’s where I leak. It is where I speak and walk. As I walk, I speak, and as I speak, I trickle away, bit by bit. They’re the two things I’m still capable of doing, walking and speaking, though with each step and each word I lose a part of myself, leaking out, drop by drop. There isn’t much of me left. But while some remains, there remain some things for me to do. All I can do is speak and walk, all I am are steps and words.
A short story by Sam Glover.