I think she asked me, "You wouldn't really miss me, would you?" Maybe breathe a little bit more.
The wrong corner of my eye
Sometimes, I try to relax. Someplace wrapped with a blanket of warm shimmering air, fluttered religiously by gusts of cool breeze, would be a palatable spot. On closing my eyes, I often find myself in the school grounds. One could sit there amidst the amber leaves, left behind to turn into a golden yellow, with the rustle ringing a constant chime. I could see children, could hear their distant laughter. I close my eyes.
That day, as I traced my way back to the waiting area, I took a halt. It's hard to miss that sprawled out tree, towering over the narrow walkway. It's tempting to search for a moon tangled between the branches. I walked away with a quaint smile. Or at least I fool myself into believing so.
There are some waits that make you sick in the stomach, with the pungent nausea swirling thick in the air, erupting from a pang of loneliness and trivial nature of one's existence. There's more to few others. The ones that leave your eyes smeared with a sheen, your lips upturned till they creak, your palms and soles sweating against that indoor freeze and your nose suffused with an aroma so thick, it gets hard to even breathe. Yet, the second-hand of a wristwatch strikes the same. One always waits.
I stood there, devouring the scene, as it left me licking my lips. Hmm, 5'2" I'd say. I had this urge to land a kiss, on that soft of your lips, amidst the rumbling beast of human traffic at the centre of the entrance hall. I held back, with an odd ugly smile. I thought all smiles were beautiful, and one fateful day, I glanced at a mirror. We moved to someplace quiet.
I love to arch my fingers, as they pierce a beautiful flowing veil of your hairs, and wrap them at the nape of your neck. I could almost feel that resistance fading. The kiss leaves a different taste. It's not tense anymore. I could feel my lips melting, melting to a pool in your mouth. Some footfalls made you jerk your head back. I open up my eyes.
The softness of your lips lingers still. I sometimes rub my finger on my lower lip, just for a familiar brush. The lack of familiarity leaves a throbbing ache somewhere in my chest. My lips had grown back that crusted, cracked layer stemming from a winter's lonely grip. With eyes closed, I'd often let my tongue wander off. Yearning for the sweet elixir pooling in your mouth, I'm left with a salty remanant of some tear rolling off the wrong corner of my eye.
pa_luckEvery paragraph leaves with a set of feelings, different yet relating. I can always watch an animated movie, reading your descriptions with my eyes closed. You strength is something you haven't seen yet.
Giving a feedback on such notes is beyond the range of words. It just feels right to read them. And corners can't be wrong.
despairFuck! The imagery and the metaphors are so effing good. I agree with everything that's said by her ^. This was beautiful <33