Wednesday, December 12, 2012

letter to a once-lover.

Dear Love,

Does it sound weird, calling you that? Does it make you cringe and wish this never reached you? Or are you laughing at the fact that I'm still not over you? Or, maybe, just maybe, it's making you smile a little. And remember us. I hope it's making you think of us.

I still think of us. Of the things we did, the plans we made, the dreams we shared. I think of us with every waking moment. And in the quiet of the night, when the rest of the world is slumber-worn, floating in an universe far removed from the one they inhabit during the day, I remember our phone calls - the late calls that made me a night bird, the thought of which still keeps me a night bird. I remember all that we spoke of. There was something about that time post-midnight. Everything seemed brighter, newer, shinier. Everything was...possible. The world was ours. We were infinite. 

Most nights I wait for the phone to ring. And it does. Just not from you. And when it does ring from you, it's just not that magical hour.

But thank you, for the phone calls. It's always good to hear your voice and even better when I can almost hear you smiling through your words. Sometimes I admonish myself, for waiting so eagerly for you to call, for trying to hold on to every bit of our conversation, when I know that you only call when you're bored. And lonely. And not with her.

I miss laughing with you.

You said you still wanted us to be friends. I couldn't grudge you that. I still wanted to be in your life some way. Does it make me pathetic that I can't let you go? Do you feel sorry that I'd hold on to you any which way I can even though I hate myself for it? Does being in close proximity and not being the way we were before kill you like it kills me - or are we just two people with memories?

I try.
I try.
I try so hard to keep your thoughts away from my mind. But it's like an ache I can't get rid of. And you don't help really. You're hot and you're cold and you come and you go and you leave me with hopes only to dash them all with the next silent treatment.

Remember that Taylor Swift song The Story of Us? Granted neither of us were huge fans, but we also reminded ourselves that we'd never be like that song. How ironic is it that that's exactly where we got stuck -
                                      This is looking like a contest
                                      Of who can act like they care less
Irony over irony. Makes me wonder if all heartbreaks feel the same way. Which is why it feels like some our singing our diary, while some our writing our story.

I wanted to do everything in the world with you. Wake up every morning next to you. Team up for The Amazing Race together. Visit New York. Tell you I loved you on top of the Eiffel Tower.
You wanted that, too. Or that's what you said.
What happened to all that?
Have you replaced me with her now? Do you dream these dreams with her now? Is it her you have in mind when you read Neruda now?

I hope you don't find her skin when you turn off the lights.

I hope for a lot of things now. Like maybe you'll call me tonight. Or perhaps we'll run into each other tomorrow near that cafe we used to haunt post noon. Or maybe you'll wake up tomorrow and realise you're still in love with me and it was lying dormant slumber-like this past month and has now reawakened with new found fervour and you'll never leave me again. Or even think of it.
Yes, I still hope for some kind of a miracle. Because it's that hope that really get me going.
I mean, you loved me, right? And it couldn't really have vanished into the night, could it?

Maybe you'll find it again.
Maybe you'll just need time.

Don't be scared, though. It's okay if you don't want to come back. No, I take that back. It won't be okay. It can't be okay. But I'll understand. Like I have tried to understand things when it comes to you.

It'll break my already broken heart. And it'll kill me to see you with someone else. But I think I'll survive. People do live on with broken hearts, don't they? Another irony of existence. But, yeah, I'll get by. I think.

So don't you worry about me. Hope you get from your life all that you want from it.

Maybe we'll run into each other at Paris - what, five, ten years from now.
Maybe our kids will meet and fall in love. (How weird will that be?)
Maybe you'll find yourself in a story of mine.
Maybe.

But hey.
Even if the maybes don't happen, you'll always have my heart.


Always,
Your once-lover.


 
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