• The thought of you sets in like monday blues in the last hours of a Sunday spent in ode of a life held in abeyance.
I wonder , worry, look forward to, and hate you, all at once. And just like a Monday, I submit myself to you. You slog me down all week, and when you're not ravening anymore, you call it a break.
The world calls it weekend, I know it's just you enjoying the bliss of having something to your fill.
• The other day I saw you on the metro back home. You were standing right in front of the door, like always. And I, clenching on to my cowardly heart slipped into the farthest possible corner. Darwaze daeyi taraf khule,
the doors opened to the right, and once again my heart got left-swiped.
• I often listen to the Spotify playlists I stole from you. Your playlists are as nonchalant as you are and their names as unlikely as mine.
From your playlists, I have gathered that Coke Studio makes more sense to you than a rustic Himachali folk piece that hasn't been meddled with yet. I wonder if you've always appreciated fusion over folk or that some commonplace Pahari song isn't sophisticated enough for you.
• I once had your initials tattooed to the nape of my neck. Now that you're gone, and lovesick tattoos aren't in vogue anymore, I got it covered with a rose. Everytime I lie down, it pricks my skin. I don't remember asking the tattooist for thorns, but then again, I never sought heartbreak.
And yet I had you.
©kir_tiii | thorn-kissed