To bits.

I tend to usually scorn at your choice of dressing, but today I couldn’t. You were wearing a green shirt with an unmatched blue pajama, a bland grey scarf, and two different slippers. You were wearing your deceased parents’ clothes.

An old threadbare rug lies in the rarely visited store room. Perhaps it was beautiful in its day, but now nobody cares about it. Nobody remembers it. Nobody needs it. Nobody depends upon it. Nobody’s happiness is dependent on it. It just lies there, dying. It is not obliged to be anything for anyone. I wish I was that rug.

There was a girl. Her parents were professors of literature fascinated with paradoxes. They named her Contradiction. She lived up to her name. And lived life contradicting every term. Her life began when she died.

One day, I’ll open the door for him, and we’ll think of all the instances we yearned for that door opening. One day, I’ll massage his shoulders and feet, we’ll think of all the times we wished for such a scene. One day, I’ll embrace him from behind, and we’ll think back to every time we imagined the embrace. One day, I’ll hold his hand and he’ll hold mine. And we’ll look at the stars. And we’ll tell the moon, it doesn’t even have to exist anymore. We’re not just under the same moon. We now share breaths.
Mind you, the day will come.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s