A Vintage Print

  Sometimes I imagine us together. I imagine you here and me in your arms and aromatic candles burning . I imagine watching your head move as I play  guitar for you . I imagine your stories plastered on the walls of my heart till the blood no longer goes out. I imagine your stories painted on the inside of my skin so I never shed them. Is that too much? I like to think that you’re for me. That you came here looking solely for me. I like to think that the blood inside your hands longs to reach for mine. I like to think of some unrealistic affection that came into existence just because you and I exist. Is that too much? I can almost touch your skin without shuddering at the heat. I can take it for warmth and maybe I can melt. I will defend your words long after you’re gone and I haven’t met you and I haven’t known what you’re upto. I will talk about you to anyone who has ears and I will only ever search for your face. After you’re gone, I will scream your stories at them in subtle hints

  My fingers are red because I’m in love with you. They blush at the touch of your skin. I think I exist only because I’m in love with you. I’m subsumed by your love. Then again, I use the word ‘love’ liberally. As if it doesn’t attach with itself, the connotations and further inhibitions of consequence. I say the word with awe and with such intensity, I move forward with only that in me. There is nothing else. I fall in love with love every time you talk to me and say my name. My name sounds like glory when you tie it to your tongue. Your tongue holds secrets that only I could catch. I still don’t catch them. I do everything just almost. Maybe I almost fell in love with you. But the mere remembrance of the worldly hollows was enough to make me forget you. I could only see the gaps and the voids and the needs and the cries. I see your gaps too – a little too much. I’m not in love with you. I’m a landmine. Not visible from a distance and seemingly docile but once you step on me, I will