The dead of night paints our parable.
I remember, I sneaked through the doors to have a last watch of you.
The rains were modest and winters were gentle then. Back then, I knotted your tie and stitched your collar button.
It’s the same December now.
So many seasons have flown in between.
The trees wind down the whiff ever since they blew over my exam notes.
I still struggle the fork over omelette.
My coffee still grows weak in the debilitated mug you gifted.
I have matured a bit grey. A lot incoherent.
Half of the hour I sleep, the rest of the time I food.
My urine smells horrible. I puke drinking hard.
I keep trying writing mails to you, but the visions challenge me.
Do you still love listening George Harrison? Do you still apprehend Keats?
I wish you do.
Can you love me the same again?
You knew I hate chocolates.
Can you debate Shakespeare with me?
I long wrapping my arms round you, I die dancing abstractly with you.
I miss the Man in you. The Monster in you.
Writer: Manjima Sarkar
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