Memories of ‘S’
Sometimes I read the letters you had written to me, and it feels as if I am alien to the world you had created with your words, and yet I can’t stop myself from gazing at your handwriting till a nebulous image of your hand begins to float on the paper.
The pain is not in the process of trying to forget you, but my inability to stop falling in love with those little things about you. Like even to this day, I wonder why you would write an ‘S’ the way you did. And the more I asked myself the same question, the more I fell in love with it, and it still consumes a part of me when I ask myself whether by any chance, we would still be each others if that ‘S’ was was a little different? A little less curvy, or perhaps written in a little less haste and excitement?
And every ‘S’ you had written, has eaten me to such an extent that every ‘S’ I read now, reminds me of you. Every time I write my name, I remind myself of writing the first letter in haste and move on to the next, trying to avoid my mind from lingering onto the first.
On the nights when the corners of my eyes burn with raging fever, you somehow emerge from piled up memories, the touch of your palm on my forehead now more vivid; your voice now reigns the steamy atmosphere of my pale face. I raise my hand to touch your cheek, and you resist with a smile. I don’t ask you why, but I lie still, embracing the resurgence of my memories of you, and I know that the only thing I should stay away from, to be with you, is my pill, because the last time it had extinguished my fever, you faded out faster than my gasps, as I desperately tried to hold you back. But you wouldn’t listen, and one by one, everything about you- the warmth of your presence, the comfort of your palms, the drops your silvery voice in my ears, my memories of the different sounds of your laughter, the varying shades of your smiles; all of it took less than a blink of an eye to die out into oblivion, until all that was left of you, was the smell of your absence.
So, I won’t swallow my pills. I will hold you with my tired eyes, and memorize you all over again. And I know, there will be a day when you will tell me why you’d write the ‘S’ the way you did. With your answer in my eyes, I will shed tears on your letters until every ‘S’ changes in some way, for it might just change the way things have been.
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