…for all I know we were happy in that microcosm.
We built a town of our own. Perhaps, initially, it was just a street. Down the alley next to a big boulevard- a small little street that had fewer people but more dreams, lower walls but high skies, narrow entrances but wider windows. We built that street, our own microcosm, with some small things: the smell of your skin; the glint of our eyes; smiles that we exchanged; conversations that dusked days; and nights that made “us” of ‘you’ and ‘me.’
For all I know we were happy in that microcosm. But, we moved ahead… beyond that street towards the alley into the boulevard. You were walking fast, at times running. I was barely touching you, however following every step of yours, trying not to lose your sight. Squinting, huffing, hurrying I ran behind you and throughout the run, we met people with bigger things—the smell of ambition; the glint of the worldly world; empty smiles; and conversations that dusked our souls leading to nights that made ‘you’ and ‘me’ from “us.” And soon we drifted into a coma. The coma, running for years, in which we, now, sleep next to each other every night; longing for those small things- skin, eyes, smiles, conversations.
…and now all of what is left of me is a part of what we lived a while ago. WE. The ‘we’ with no perpetuity. The ‘we’ like your smell all over my body. Fading away with every mile you travel farther. Will you come back to me before this smell is gone? Or should I take a bath and slip into our coma, again. Every night I touch you but you travel miles away from me. I smell your breath and hold it in me to know if it still has that warmth. The warmth that used to soothe my soul. But it is all cold and I live this nightmare with open moist eyes. While you sleep, I inhale your every breath and when it enters my body, my soul shivers for your love.
Every night when I touch you, I hunt for that street-smell of your skin but all I get is a city-slug. Each time the lights go off and we unclothe each other’s body: our souls dress up. Scared of being the old street-naked, our soul dress up to dance on the jazz of this city. Although, while dancing to this Jazz, your naked body wraps mine but our souls drift apart. And then, while you dance, my drifted soul becomes a homeless poet and wanders street to street searching for his lost lover. Every night, my soul, the poet, writes a new poem and reads it aloud anticipating to hear your voice from the street, that once existed, down the alley… next to a big boulevard.
Power of simple words.