I dream my words and I word my dream.
I don’t know if you’ll read this
And I hope you never do
But yes, you are an asshole
And I know you know that too
Loving you feels like the first rain of the monsoon, a cup of chai on a winter morning, that one song of nostalgia on a long drive, a recurring deja vu of us dancing in circles, in an ending loop of love and longing.
“I love you, too,” I whisper back with my lips pressed to his. He tastes like cheese and pepperoni and the next sixty years of my life. His embrace is gentle and his hair dampened by the rains.
Your voice, like nails biting on my flesh, clawing onto my insecurities in the name of beauty. Beauty which you see on my face, my pale skin, and my long, cascading locks.
I was a fool to think that this time, it would be different. It would be better. A fool to mistake my wounds as healed, over the span of time I’d spent hiding the agony in a dark corner, wishing it would eventually go away, if I just pretend it was never even there.
It was unplanned. But it was all he could do, a last wish. A last memory, together. For she doesn’t have too long on her, to stay. Mr. & Mrs Dasgupta has been married for almost 25 years now. A rollercoaster, full of good, bad and the ridicule.
