You still find yourself there sometimes.
Tracing the marks on your back, after you first met him.
Your hair smelling of cigarettes and eyes lined with love too fierce for paper.
This was right. It always felt that way.
But, so did most of the things that knocked the air right out of your lungs on December winter mornings,
that aren't just cold enough yet.
Things like these – they always have a knack for starting like that, don’t they?
Setting you on fire - limb by limb - bone by bone – and before you know it,
you’re glad for the flames - oblivious of the skin peeling off - coloring your world in sixteen shades of ashes.
I always wanted to write about you – and empty beer bottles that get me high too soon – and songs of Floyd that told me how we were just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, which I don’t listen to anymore – and that night I spent running my fingers through your hair, whispering the same thing over and over, not wanting to be anywhere else but there – with my bare, very vulnerable legs next to yours.
You sometimes wonder if you’ll ever forget him – let go completely – a boy like that, whom you wrote of, since you were fourteen, yet to put words to that sudden fall in your chest that accompanied a deep sense of hurt.
Japanese call it fukoturo.
Literally translating to bosom. Figuratively, to the physical feeling of a broken heart.
You know too much now.
Perhaps, a little more than you should.
I remember walking next to the train carrying you home. Carrying my home.
Somehow, I knew I’d never see you again. Just like I knew you’d fall in love with me when we talked in late September, from two years ago. You – with the perfect complement to my superhero alter ego.
"I'm writing a story."
"Do they fall in love?"
"How do you know there is a they?"
"There isn't?"
He didn't sleep last night.
It has been 288 days since I last wrote and now that I am,
I wonder if I’ll fall in love with you in the end. Again.
Maybe you can kiss me this time.
Yes?
Or maybe I’ll just fall in love.
That’d be okay, too.
So, let me and
If that’s alright with you, love,
I’d like my heart back.
Tokhon amaaye naiba mone raakhle.
It's alright if you don't remember me then.
Tracing the marks on your back, after you first met him.
Your hair smelling of cigarettes and eyes lined with love too fierce for paper.
This was right. It always felt that way.
But, so did most of the things that knocked the air right out of your lungs on December winter mornings,
that aren't just cold enough yet.
Things like these – they always have a knack for starting like that, don’t they?
Setting you on fire - limb by limb - bone by bone – and before you know it,
you’re glad for the flames - oblivious of the skin peeling off - coloring your world in sixteen shades of ashes.
I always wanted to write about you – and empty beer bottles that get me high too soon – and songs of Floyd that told me how we were just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, which I don’t listen to anymore – and that night I spent running my fingers through your hair, whispering the same thing over and over, not wanting to be anywhere else but there – with my bare, very vulnerable legs next to yours.
You sometimes wonder if you’ll ever forget him – let go completely – a boy like that, whom you wrote of, since you were fourteen, yet to put words to that sudden fall in your chest that accompanied a deep sense of hurt.
Japanese call it fukoturo.
Literally translating to bosom. Figuratively, to the physical feeling of a broken heart.
You know too much now.
Perhaps, a little more than you should.
I remember walking next to the train carrying you home. Carrying my home.
Somehow, I knew I’d never see you again. Just like I knew you’d fall in love with me when we talked in late September, from two years ago. You – with the perfect complement to my superhero alter ego.
"I'm writing a story."
"Do they fall in love?"
"How do you know there is a they?"
"There isn't?"
He didn't sleep last night.
It has been 288 days since I last wrote and now that I am,
I wonder if I’ll fall in love with you in the end. Again.
Maybe you can kiss me this time.
Yes?
Or maybe I’ll just fall in love.
That’d be okay, too.
So, let me and
If that’s alright with you, love,
I’d like my heart back.
Tokhon amaaye naiba mone raakhle.
It's alright if you don't remember me then.
Finally a new post. And this is not just a post, it's much more. Its so subtle and so fresh even though it happened a long time back but the sense of it so pure. Love it Surbhi. :') I heart it. <3
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