stories often like taking strolls
sometimes in solitude,
sometimes in the company of
some others,
so long as they are happy and their
sentences seem to
subtly dissolve into one another.

stories talk to each other the most -
summarizing days and nights
stuttering on some horribly
scribbled words,
squinting at some alien scripts,
sure to trip on half-baked lines.

stories are the only ones who truly and
surely live in the moment.
somehow, they are fully aware that
sections of their lives may never
see the light of day.
still, they persist in haunting
sleepless souls burning all kinds of oil
so as to make their homes on
semi-wrinkled,
       semi-stained,
   semi-torn,
semi-ingrained paper.

stories often forget that they might be incomplete -
so they dress up,
stars and strikes and notes and all,
sashay down pages - company or alone,
slowly turn to you and almost
silently tell you to have hope.
someday, they promise,
someday they will return to you, in the
shape of an unknown familiarity,
silhouettes of a dream dreamt at 4 AM, or
shower thoughts
spelt out on walls and curtains.

stories have a habit of making
sure that no matter when they leave,
some parts of them will always be
safe with you.

stories don't mind leaving,
so long as you promise that their lives will always be
seen in the
shadows of what you promised you would write.