It is 4:00 a.m. and I can listen to the morning slowly waking up to the cold blue stillness, lying spread apart, unevenly upon the flesh of this city. Outside my window, I can see the highway, glistening in streaks of reds, oranges and lost yellows; the highway that stayed up with me, all night.
In the distance, across the lights, I can hear the muffled cries of a man, calling out to you, calling out your name, howling with the wind, followed by the hum like lingering of trailer sirens.
My forehead pressed into the glass, my eyes stare at the dark sky beyond, sleeping upon a bed of quiet purple-orange halo; moving slowly to the tepid, dewy translucence of my window, and I see your face, in my reflection.
The colour of your skin paints itself upon me like twilight, the mist left about by my breath, exhales your lips in place, and I can’t remember how many dawns I have counted, in search of you.
I don’t know if I ever stopped looking for you. I have managed to save some of you though, over the years, inside me. I can always find you there. And now, I have found you again.
I am still and numb, feeling quiet and heavy, standing here, staring at your face, in mine, and I don’t know what to say. I never seem to run out of the memories. They keep making their way into my iris, and I begin to look for you everywhere inside this room. I have never run out of reasons to remember you. As long as I know I have more, there is always another night to give. I never run out of cigarettes either. I never run out of you.
On some nights, I write poems about your tresses, in hope that my words will somehow find their way. But I am sitting here alone, in between the walls of these pages, afraid to let you go, afraid to touch you again.
It begins to rain. I can see you standing outside my window. It is time for me to exit the light and fall into bed. Amidst my sheets, I snuggle up to you and close my eyes against yours; breathe in your warmth, and feel you.
Tonight, I will force a dream into, and fall across to the other side in the comatose of your scent, where I lie in your arms and sleep. Here I will stay till daybreak and then emerge from my cocoon of blankets, and this rubble of pillows. I will write about you.
On some days I find you in the Sun, on some, in the moon. My eyes fall down with the horizon, by dark, everyday. Twisted, misplaced and contorted I die here, entangled in this last strand of you, every night.
Believe me, I cannot escape you. I have tried.
Siddharth Pathak | 3rd July 2013