I am terrible with words. I set forth to take a dip in the ocean and end up conquering mountains. It's not always been this way. I used to have words and sentences come to me, beautifully adorned in black, ornamented in nothing but those twenty-six characters I've been seeking since times immemorial.
And when they stopped coming, I stole some words. From books and newspapers. And then I found the social media where no one is safe, where even authentic isn't authenticated. And I stole some words. Then I stole sentences and then I stole stories.
Ages later, I met you, your love a whisper on my skin, your beauty a shooting star in my starless skies, your eyes an infinity in my mortal death. You were everything I romanticized, everything I'd strived to immortalize with my puny words of humongous love. And just like that, they were back. The words, the sentences, the stories. But this time, they were better. More beautiful, as though the oh-so-familiar twenty-six black goddesses, sprinkled with a pinch of magic, had turned magic themselves. So, I weaved poetry until my my fingers bled and I spun sonnets until my eyes hurt. And long after I ran out of paper or ink, I'd still continue murmuring. Your beauty deserves to be immortalized, but more importantly I need to celebrate my reunion with my twenty-six friends who'd left me, unlively and frail.
©Arpita Mukherjee 2017