My dearest Nikhil,
It is remarkable how you still remain "my" and "dearest". The hours open into years and you age along. Our history stands like the exquisite uselessness of medals who adorn the shelves. What do we make of our histories, Nikhil? What do I do about it?
And I have nothing else to cook and no more to chew.
Midnights such as these, they are ours too. "Ours" is a difficult embrace to unembrace from. How I would love you to kiss off my unhappy thoughts after you, and for someone to write our story.
Except that you are perfectly hatred-material.
You remain the scar I like showing off,
Meira.
It is remarkable how you still remain "my" and "dearest". The hours open into years and you age along. Our history stands like the exquisite uselessness of medals who adorn the shelves. What do we make of our histories, Nikhil? What do I do about it?
And I have nothing else to cook and no more to chew.
Midnights such as these, they are ours too. "Ours" is a difficult embrace to unembrace from. How I would love you to kiss off my unhappy thoughts after you, and for someone to write our story.
Except that you are perfectly hatred-material.
You remain the scar I like showing off,
Meira.
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