Tonight I watched the stars shine, wondered if we are meant to be or we ever will. Sometimes I see you walking towards me, and my entire awareness snaps into focus – everything else falls away. Tell me if this feeling is not daunting; tell me if it is not overwhelming. Is this how the flavors of love taste like? The Polaroid moments of texts and random phone calls, laughter and secret smiles, rare reveals and remembered pasts, good food and more good food, the warmth and touches, the intimacy of two lovers – not star-crossed- the clandestine of it all. You’re like a 15th century map – indecipherable. Sometimes I pretend to not know you as much, pretend that there are still parts of your body I have not memorized (probably there are) and pretend that this love is not as glorious as I think it is – because the gods take beauty away, and you, you’re on top of the beauty list. I –
it is odd how words seem to bury themselves deep when it comes to you. An arduous task, writing becomes. I would love to paint rhymes over your body, pen down your features and immortalize them like how Shakespeare did with his Sonnet 18(how can anyone bloody forget that?). But I cannot. Incoherency becomes me. All I can come out with is a whole paragraph of word-vomits that is detached and insignificant. You see what I have done here? The words “I” and “me” have been used far more than “you”. For the umpteen time, I have failed to love you in words but this won’t be the last try.
We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. - Anais Nin
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