Bustop no 7
I scribble few lines in my notebook. Scratch out the words that look so out of place in those pages soon after. When it comes to you, I seem to run out of words. How do I describe the way you make me feel? I can write that your smile reminds me of summer rain or that your hands traces maps on mine or the way your skin tastes like sea breeze. But nothing I write will do justice to the way you make me feel. What is a writer to do when this happens? You had asked me long back what it was about you that I fell in love with. Today, my g*****, I can say that you are the only one that I could never capture perfectly on paper. It's the first time that the ink from my pen failed to match the images imprinted inside my head. And somehow, it doesn't bother me one bit. You remain locked up inside me, my very own secret. A writer's selfishness or a lover's possessiveness? Maybe a bit of both...