We met. A long time it has been. But finally, it happened again. And it keeps on happening again, and again and again and again. Just a few hours and some thing just happens that reminds me of him. Either it is that same old cologne, or his words. His promises, or sometimes these scars.
I have felt his breath so closely that I regret not breathing his name in this aura of blankness. I have felt his touch to the bones that I wish not to be called pure anymore. I have known his fragrance in myself that I wish to be a part of this world once more; I wish to live.
It terrifies me to be a part of this longing I have never felt before.
Days pass and I realise that I am no more living. World came crashing upon me, and I was watching how it even turned into hell.
Evenings have turned into blurry memories, and nights are more close to me now. Even if I wish to believe this or not but a lot of paths have changed, a lot of people have left, and a lot of things are not the same anymore.
It has been long that I've not written about him, but I don't know if the void is being filled because of an absence or because of my ink being used less.
The nights when we used to talk like two people in love, it was ours, everything - the world. But we were not, we were not in love, or I don't know, if you were truly in love or not, but I was. I still miss those nights, our conversations, and everything.
I don't know if love just flies away, from one person to other, from one soul to other, or it just leaves you all of a sudden. I don't know if you let it leave you, or the people around you make you unfamiliar with that. But love, for me, was the only connection with you, and now when you have left, I realise that love is not a seasonal phenomenon.
You walk around, you meet new people, you see seasons, but you don't forget the love you have known. And although you find parts of them in everyone, you somewhere know, that they will return back, and one day, you will be with them.
Blues have always fascinated me, a little more than greys. Sky has always been a home to me. And love, has never been a part of this love story. Irony? I'd rather call it a love triangle!
I have painted the walls of my room with what they call blankness; I've shattered the glass of the mirror I always looked into and smiled; I've never touched a soul for they might become unsacred.
The ceiling of my room always looks at me and smiles, maybe it knows the pain I hold so close? Or maybe I find the corners turned the other way round? Maybe I've lost the ability to sense a feeling anymore?
It has been long since I renounced being me and started being someone I don't know. Although I am in my skin, I'm not akin to my touch. My shade of life, has turned more into a graveyard. Yet I hope I'll see the rising sun, one day. Irony? I call it love triangle.
I painted a canvas and adorned it with his name, and although my life was jiggling the shimmer onto the lines of my journal, I was being accused of being in love.
Love? A four letter word, which hardly holds any value, and which keeps on changing? No. That's not love.
Every sunlight witnessed a new day for my dearest four letter word and every night, was a reason to not continue this anymore. But is it ever our choice to not feel something at a particular point if we don't wish to? No, I believe. Dare deny that?
None of my reasons to not fall in love ever justify if I am an accuse or not. But if you love someone, do you really become an accuse of a crime which is not even a crime?
Every night I write a letter to him. I name it as anonymous. Maybe, that's the reason when I start writing the letter, I don't imagine if we could ever be together and not apart.
Love is not merely a feeling. It is a part of you, and it dies with you.