Pranay,
Up in (or, shouldn't it be 'on') the air, where prepositions actually do not matter, I am writing to you. Earlier, I used to do this quite artistically on quirky notebooks with flashy fountain pens. I cannot say it didn't bring about a rally of attention, and while my writing was more concentrated on the clouds from where the river of expressions flew, this doesn't feel too different too -- typing and unclouded. The battery of questions would have pleased you, if ever verbal. 'You use a fountain pen?', 'Are you a writer?', 'Are you an artist?', 'May I please buy you a cup of coffee?' I smiled the silences away, to your general disapproval. I know you. Knowing you too well, still makes me smile.
You think I have forgotten you? Ask yourself if that is even distantly possible. No, I do not dream of marrying you, or hovering around you for any stray, kind attention or forgivable love instances. My nails are clipped to the exact length you liked, my lips wear the same shade as you kissed, my hair the same softness wear, even though you aren't anywhere here.
The mountains smoke in daisy chains, like you. Luggages around me are packed with everything that your backpack stored. One backpack, a hurriedly pushed in pair of clean socks along with drives and disks and you were ready. For your next travel.
Another push of a sandwich wrapped in silver foil and you were done. You did not turn back to care if I was done.
Turns out, I still am not.
Shreya.
No comments:
Post a Comment