I hoped to see you at least once
before you left-
behind the sixth lane,
walls of which still have hand-prints
that we made as kids;
under the sign board
which read something in French,
meant something that
our inexperienced hearts are
still incapable of comprehending;
or maybe, under the staircase-
beside the empty cartons
where we promised
to make our own little house,
someday.

I listened to you,
ranting about your day;
who made you smile;
whether you believed in magic;
what your muse was,
silently,
watching words bounce off
the edge of your lips,
your pupils dilate
when you said the word “Love”.

I stole memories of you
from the pinch of your cheek,
the tip of your nose,
your eyelids,
which would twitch
at an external touch
until the warmth of my fingertips
blended with your skin.

You would laugh
about something that
had happened months ago-
the echoes of which still keep me going for days-
I would just sit back
and mentally make notes
about how hard
my heart pounded against my ribcage
every time you breathed heavier
to compensate for the ones you skipped.

You hair would fall on your face,
you would push them back
without a pause while,
I would be looking at your hands.
I love how
your hands look under the sun,
the soft curves;
how each crease
on your palm discloses secrets about you
which was why you always walked
with your hand knotted in fists;
the freckles on its back –
how it could be woven into constellations
with names of your distant lovers
carved on your pale wrists.


I write about you-
carefully picking up words
that describe my whims,
decorating the corners of letters,
choosing to draw hearts
in the tittles of I’s,
imitating the curve of your smile
in my Y’s-
and when I think
that words are not enough
to tell you how much
you mean to me,
I smudge a range
of contrasting colors
on a fresh canvas
till it fills up the space inside my nails,
smears on my face
and spoils my favorite white dress;
you are a beautiful mess.

The sky reminds me of you.
And feathers too.
So, stuff them in my empty pockets
on my way from work until,
I have a feeling
that one more to them
would make me fly.
I wish I could fly to you;
you’re so far;
my words don’t affect you,
and the dust that has
settled between us
doesn't let me see you, any more.


And I am not ready
to let your memories
become the dead flowers-
pressed between
the yellow pages of a book;
a rusted twig in an abandoned nest.
So, I’ll wait for you
by the broken window,
stained drapes,
until you make your way
back home.