Of past, of love
I wasn’t very keen on it when I last saw it. It was a hornet’s nest from the past and i didn’t wish to stir it. But this time, when I opened my cupboard and saw it lying at the corner of it, I was very tempted to read its very contents. I was keen, curious to be honest, of how my past has been, of romance and its starts. I locked my room, picked it up and sat on my bed.
I slowly pulled it out of the envelope and smelled it. It still had her smell, or so I thought. Except for slightly crushed corners, it was in a perfect state, as if it was written yesterday. On the centre of its portion she made a heart and wrote my name in it. Her writing was particularly beautiful, such that the cursiveness of its letters could give waves a run. After messily skidding my hand on the outline of that heart, I turned the page and started reading its parts. The contents reminded me of the times we had, of kisses and hugs, of trips and love, of future that never was. She ended by intertwining the letters of her name into mine, thus inbibing her presence in her absence forever.
In modern times, it is still this love letter from 2014 that still happens to be the most precious gift from my past.
Kissed
When I kissed her, it was sorcery, a figment of fire, like a storm was closing in, in the wildness of expanse. It was like a feeling, the touch of our lips, an urge I can’t articulate, our heads tilted and eyes closed and exchange of vows. She bewildered me with a sense of certainty, a red flush of longing. She gave me a fever that lasted a decade. It felt urgent and hallucinogenic, our bodies blending.
I had waited for long. It wore me down; seeing a glimpse of her in the corridor, sometimes sitting on bench through the window of her class. Sometimes I used to gaze her and get caught, but she had no idea how passionately we were involved. Sometimes when she used to dance in the amphitheatre, I briefly, like animals in evenings when the sky is small with darkness, pace across the edges, overcome the drunk, chanced to hold her for a few nervous moments. In those neon lights that danced in rhythmic fashion, we stood straight and separate, my arms stiff and hands hot as we circled, turning like a universe, a sun between us. And when she looked at me and smiled, all the songs spoke for me, all the songs were about her.
I had always wondered how she would. I wanted to press my mouth to hers, feel her voice on my tongue, pull the breath from her lungs, the heat and wet of her love drawn in like steam, one hand in her dark hair, the other on the small of her back. I wanted to press her boobs, hold her waist and pull her inside of me, like two of us bound by immensities.
Then I woke up. It was a dream, a perfect at that way. I never forgot it. She is gone now, to a different state, to a different world. She earns a tad more than me and thus, possibly doesn’t think of me as a perfect match. But she texts back to me sometimes, like a flicker in blue moon and my world lights bright.
She’s still a girl, her face blurred by layers of my memory, etched in my soul and riddled in my heart. And I am a madness of the same boy who never kissed her to find the true words.
AGFL.
Scintilla of Scobiform 