A Vintage Print

 ⁣ For the longest time of my existence, I have been someone who left space while standing under the umbrella. I have been someone who slept with open doors and windows fearing the loneliness around me. I have watched strangers in the park giggling and wondered how it felt to be someone's reason to smile. ⁣ ⁣And then you happened to me. You happened to me when I forgot the difference between a candle lit for prayers and the one for funerals. I don't have enough words inside my heart to describe you. My eyes have smiled in silence at the Orange  of your dress. My pen wrote about your earrings so many times that I almost felt them. My lips have whispered your name for so long that it felt like breathing. ⁣ ⁣I love(d) you in ways that seasons felt like days passing by the window of a dying old man. I love(d) you when I forgot what love felt like. I love(d) you in ways that I no longer recognize the parts of me that don't bleed when I look in the mirror. ⁣ ⁣God, I wish I could ...

 Our story is a simple collision of our hearts and it started  few years ago and will end years later even if we just met yesterday. It isn’t a story about the entire universe making us meet at a random bus stop .Isn’t lossing purse was like blind date. It isn’t a love song of how we will be in love forever. We probably won’t be. But that wouldn’t end the story. This story has not a lot of obstacles or prizes to be won. There is only one purpose and you and I come together for it. Only for a while. Only for a while, but you hold me with your tears and I stay with my smiles. You talk with your heart and I listen with mine. You hold me with a lose grip and I convince myself of your prowess. It isn’t an adventure of how you saved me. Not where we are best friends first. Not even friends. It isn’t a story with our lives guiding each of us to the other. It is only a line of strings pulling at you and yours pulling at mine. We didn’t know what we were doing but we were bound by each...

 In the history of all that I've ever had to write about anyone, let it all be leading up to you, your eyes — they speak a language I can only nod my head along to and shy; shy, I am, as one of us blushes while the other pretends, there isn't really much to say here, only to look and being looked at in return, which isn't much, you might say, but I like being seen, and yours are the only pair of eyes that give me the impression that I am, that someone out there's looking for me, at me. And your nose isn't tiny as you suspect it is, sharp at the edges making your cold nudges colder, I could write a love poem to it, for it, titled: 'The nose knows'. It must, I feel, for it hardly ever pokes itself in matters not concerning it's delightful existence, don't cut your hair short, please, I know, I shouldn't get to decide it for you, but I'm not, it's a mere hopeful suggestion desirous of your attention, is it not. I like your hair covering both...

  Sometimes I imagine I'm dead. I like to imagine a time and place that would exist without me. I like to think that people who love me will be sad and eventually they'll return to the hustle. I like to think that me not being here would not upset many. Maybe some technical issues like wearing whites because it's not their colour. Maybe the burn in their eyes as they burn me. My ashes too young to know which way to flow. My smoke too lost. My clothes too skinny to be donated. A few of my words scattered across lips too dry from crying. But other than that, I like to think they'll all be fine. I also like to think that they won't be. I know they won't be. I guess I like to imagine that my mind is a thought machine spitting out ideals about life and death when it doesn't know either. And then I think I think too much. But it's not always a sad thought. I like to think it makes me more alive.