Last summer, I was diagnosed, with a rare disease; the doctor in an altercation with his team, concluded that it was a side-effect of persistent shortness of breath:
"It's not in my hands anymore; A mere ten-thousand and four, This will be your life now; Thrice to ponder, and to trow."
It was stated on paper, that my inhaling and exhaling quota per day, was fixed to that number and who would have thought, there would come a time when my breaths would be chained.
I started noting down, every gasp, every pant, every extra word, every extra step; ten-thousand and four seems excessive, but when have you counted your pleasures, it's always the miseries etched in hearts.
It was less, undeniably, because of that I had to suppress emotions that were dreary; crying, laughing, rage, love, every single one of them; I was of flesh and blood and no life, bitter and alone.
As soon as the day would end, the number would be refreshed; it was as if a conjurer casted a spell on me, and there was no falling out of it, until I met her, in wicked winter:
"Heya, I've seen you for a while, I'm somewhat of a secret lover, And I'll walk with you all aisles, Love you, with undying fervour."
Do you trust winter vows? It was surreal when she told me that she loved me, a person who contemplated twice to tell her he loved her back; she was heaven, the way her locks hung on my face, scenting my literally cursed breaths was a fortune, too precious, too dangerous.
She made my heart throb wildly, and did everything that I wasn't supposed to; for her sake, in a long time, I felt like living, and stayed away from her; until the end, there has to be an end, the one certainty you can't run away from.
It was a cold night, a blizzard was sweeping across the city, the phone rang, so did the knell:
"There's something to tell you, I am sad I haven't been true, But your visage, my gaze seeks, To live now, I only have weeks."
I slammed the door open, ran amok the snow-covered avenue, and I lost the count of breaths, felt it was a waste; as I reached her place and saw her lying helpless on a white bed, whiter than the snow outside, she was snow-white; I was panting, gasping, and doing all the things one does for a loved one, I was crying; I trod with heavy footsteps towards her:
"Ten, nine, eight."
I had ran out of time.
"seven, six, five, four."
I bent down a bit, saw the red stain on her lips, with a pumping heart, I couldn't resist:
"three, two, one."
I kissed her, the fairy tale ended, the spell broke.
A hurricane robbed me of air in summer, and I have no regrets, because my last one was fragranced with hers.