I miss the enigma of the night because as the city sleeps my mind moves to those thoughts which are unreachable during the day, those thoughts which fits me like shards of glass on feeble doted wrists. Every freckle that shines in those nights tells a story and adds a profit to my mistakes that has graced me with experiences; when with the change in color of sky, I gaze into space and see those scattered stars interpermeate my physical state like broken pieces of misplaced collections trying terribly hard to be something else. Those 3 AM season of self-arson, when looking outside my window sill I see the whole world moving, and when these neon lights bring back me the thoughts that, outside this window there are lives that are being lived by the people who have my heart.
When I see ghosts of stories appearing through these window sills. Outside this window, there is a room that my parents are sitting in, trying to come to the term with the choices their children have made. They are wondering if those times will arrive on doorsteps again, when we used to come to them with the smallest of cuts and lightest of bruises, or if they have prepared us with enough courage to persist and take it through our own.Outside this window, there is a sweet little sister who is playing her part as caring younger sister, who sends all her love from the bottom of her hearts to soothe all my troubled thoughts, dulling the ache of my heart and wonders if I will ever lower my walls and learn to let people in to share the weight I carry on my shoulders.
Outside this window, there is a girl who shades the darkest part of me with the lightest brush strokes; her smile lets the red wine coats the inside of my heart, her laugher runs through my veins like raging waters with scorching intensity, to create a symphony of sounds for my ears. Outside this window, there is this conversation with her soaring up the sky wrapped up in amber light with flickering wings like the planets butterflies. They are beautiful because they exist, even with the uncertainty of where they will find shelter outside my sanctuary. Outside this window, there is this haze which coats the entire vision of mine with a magical canvas where I paints her with the ideas and hope that never stands the chance to exist outside my eyes where she floats like tears; afraid of making a mistake, because she won’t stay long enough for me to finish.
I miss this season of private cocoon when behind this window I let my pen be the instruments between my heavy heart and weighty head. When random swivels of my fingers forced to tap on the half-broken keys of my keyboard, in the middle of nowhere just to pour out chapters and verses from manuscripts nobody have ever read and soul nobody had ever known, which I don’t know even lies within me. When with just a random surge of unfathomable emotions I dissolve my heart in those little tear drops that go down my cheeks and scatters them in the form of swarming sentences with a flickering hope that when she read this naught some sentences may become one with her heart, so deep beyond her endocardium layers; finding their place in the unwritten story of my love in these arrows bounded winds separating us. When in the ocean of uncertainty, I painfully wish upon stars that I will make it out alive, because all I have words for her; words that I want to say to take her far away; maybe not today but hopefully and beautifully someday.
P.s – Expect paragraph two every other paragraphs are fictitious.