Sweetheart,
At the fag end of a day, which was a precious part of you, a treasured holiday, what remains of us but remains of our various selves in others? Someone holds my laughter dear, while somebody else is concerned. Some of those elusive them carry me in their pockets, while some others in their heads and hearts. And what becomes of me? I am dispersed in this universe, often dead with deadlines, but alive with the thought of you.
Another timeline begins, like every hour does with anticipation and admiration; another hour wanes like a lost page of life. What stays back? Moments with you -- carefree, unbound, precious. And love. A perfect cup of tea, a stolen walk in the terrace, earphones that yield stories and people who let us stroll around in our absolute foolish selves, I am speaking of that love. 'Foolish', that is what the world perhaps thinks of me when I write letters to you, my beloved quicksand.
Alas, I know nothing better to be feeling warm in but the thought of you. To pretend to breathe in the mountains and behave like the waves were my kingdom, to know that the open roads are my fastest friends and to leave secrets in corners that be well forgotten. All of that as I lie dead against a deadline, and survived thinking one day, someday, all of this, they will be.
Till then Chhuti, I think of you in these words that I have missed. I think of how longingly I wait and how quickly you depart. I think of frames that you have filled me up with.
Love,
K.
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