Between the Lines of Loss

At midnight when I let my emotions run, a call from an old friend is being ignored. Listening to the rain, a long night did not end at all. Moths surrounded the lamp, and one of them sat on my hand. Tonight I was wondering to whom I was trying to write. I've been running from myself for so long, that now my existence is a mirage to me. The familiar scent, a familiar face, my fingers were trying to touch those wrinkles, I tried to find the sparkle and shine of those two eyes in the shade of this dim lamp. I opened the gallery from your phone and saw our pictures. It's funny one day I'll be old and grey and you will always be the the same, young and charming. 

The peacock feather in my book, which I've been trying to read for so long, is staring at me. Raindrops are falling on the unwrinkled side of the bed through the open window. For some reason, I don't want to close the window. When your whole world flies out through the window and reaches the stars, you never dare to close the window. Window, a window to the world! My world!

I got up and draped myself in an old blue saree, which still holds the fragrance of our old times together. I picked up my pen to complete the story you started. I still have the bill for the last dinner we had together. The peepal outside the window usually mocks me, saying that I've seen thousands like you, humans are really stupid beings, holding on to the same old things, in the hope that you'll get them back. 

How easily you left with an empty heart, and I'm here with a head full of thoughts, heart heavy with emotions. The moth was dead by now, and so was the night. A new morning was there in a world without you, and I'd like to close the dairy, leaving the words alone again.