I write about you.
All the time.
In every one of my poems and stories and ramblings you will find hints leading you one step up the ladder into the shadowy, hazy, illusional space I call my mind. Some of the hints are brazen, when I am feeling bold. Some of them are more subtle because I do not want the world to know of my infatuation with you. I can still have a perfectly lucid conversation with you in my head, the way that we used to talk, never coming to any concrete conclusion, living life as if we were two binary stars revolving around each other, never to meet, till one day, we will maybe collapse into a blackhole in which we incinerate ourselves. Our truth was made up of a tapestry of lies, deftly spun into words and conversations and late-night-outs lying on the grass, we were clever enough never to reveal who we are, who we were.
For what is the use of talking about tangibility, when we had all the abstract to ourselves?
Our world was not confined to the boundaries of what we could see and touch, no, we went beyond it, we played around with what was and what could have been. Time was immaterial when we were together, it seemed to just hang in the air in front of us, like a cobweb which seems wispy enough to fly away if you blow ever so slightly. When I was with you, I was a physicist who saw great wonders and who discovered the meaning behind space and time during our conversations because; what is space and time if not relative?
I knew. And you understood. And that was my truth.
Through the cobweb, we could still see “outside”, where the world was flowing on without us, never once did it cross our minds that we might want to become a part of it.
I still write about you. It has been ten years and nine days and I am counting from the time we have not spoken. In my mind, I see the bench where we used to sit, looking at each other with sparkling eyes. The way, we used to hum certain tunes, sometimes, your fingers playing an invisible piano whilst I sat on the floor and made up melodies. In my minds eye, I see the water flowing away in front of us while we talked about words and dreams and boats and love.
I still write about you. I was foolish enough to think that the present will extend to the future, if only we just stood still, if only we did not ‘spook’ time. But fate, if only we can call the passage of time that, had other plans, which it whispered in your ears whilst I was looking away and just like that, when I turned back, you were gone. Gone were the conversations, gone was the bench, gone was the music and gone were your eyes. All that was left behind was the cobweb while I was expelled out on to the other side.
Now, sometimes, when I am falling asleep, in that state between sleep and dreaming, I go and stand in front of the cobweb and try to look through it to see you again.
(This post has been first accepted and published in a medium publication “The Coffeelicious“.)