Letter To The Guy Who Is Still At The Bottom Shelf
Whenever you enter the room my heartbeat soars high, my skin starts to sweat, my thirst for your touch increases, my longing for your attention strengthens and my desperation for you becomes unbearable. But alas! My presence isn’t able to hold up your wandering eyes.
Your calloused hands and esoteric eyes seem to get attracted towards the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Those superficial books enjoy your touch while you devour them, whereas I lie unread, untouched and waiting to be felt on the fourth shelf of your bookcase. What allures you to those books? Their shiny outlook or their expensive hardcover or their rosy smell? Why do you always pick them, why not me? Will you ever reach towards me? Will I ever catch your attention? I am waiting for you to find out what lies inside me. My words are meaningless just like broken water, without you. Do I contain within me a story untold or a story worth not telling? What lies inside me is Desdemona’s loyalty or Juliet’s tragedy? I know I am not as fascinating in looks as the books of the bottom shelf, but I yearn for a chance. Choose me once, read me, touch my yellow crinkled pages, inhale the odour of my unfading presence. I won’t promise that I’ll give you a fairytale, nor will I promise an eternal love, but I promise that I’ll make you a part, an indispensable character of my story.
Yearning and waiting for you have made me turn cold. Provide me your hot breath, your rough touch and the warmth of your deep eyes. Stretch your arm up, to the fourth shelf and choose me. This letter is waiting for you to read it, I am waiting for you to read me.
~ Riya Mishra | Edited by Afreen Zeb