You had left long back, but I had kept you holding to myself by a string of memories. You said it was
me who had the desire to create this void and never for once did I intend to alter these structural
complications. You weren’t mistaken.
You know me like the back of your hand. You know how it broke my palace of glass when you left.
How it felt like someone else trampling over those glasses, my blood spilled all over.
It started with the basics like every teenage love story begins with long nights of texting before our words seemed to engulf each other in a constant feeling. But what was amusing is how differently we defined this feeling. You laughed at those words like ‘relationship,’ and I laughed at the thought of loving the same soul over and over the years like every day was a damn new.
Where I failed was to understand how love is defined in the small tasks of dialing a number ten times
a day, just to ask a set of questions like your lunch menu and how your day was moving or to text a
picture from the trial room to ask for help choosing a shirt for the next interview. I failed to understand the foolish intricacies of expressing every feeling that went over me, by me, to help understand how simple the concepts of this bonding was.
Maybe I’ll watch over 500 days of summer again and count the days from this day before autumn visits
me. Or I’ll revisit Joel and Clementine in Montauk and desperately google for techniques that can
erase my memory of you.
And in another realm, I’ll share our English breakfast with bacon and sausages with a hot cup of coffee. And you’ll laugh at my expressions when I pick up a squid by the fork and gulp it before tasting.
Maybe we will plan our visit to Alaska to have a bite at smoked salmons with a few beers while we sit
somewhere in Greenland under the northern lights.
This is not my eulogy of us. This is how love dies.