I penned lengthy letters filled with apologies and sorrow, labeling it as love. I resorted to the usual rituals of cocaine and a surgical blade, thinking it would replace the sensation of her fingertips on my skin, believing it was remorse.
I wandered through the desolate banks of the Ganges, yearning to conjure her image from the smoke by Manikarnika Ghat. I hoped these were the better days. I met people we once discussed our future with – astrologers, gardeners who cultivated flowers her smile had recently graced. I scoured broken petunia leaves in vain, attempting to remind myself of my shattered state.
I tried tossing plucked leaves into clear water, only to see "she loves me still" resurface every time. I watched films, envisioning us in the scenes where the male lead passionately kisses the heroine, vowing never to let her go. I read daily numerology columns, attempting to cry over phone calls, and praised her efforts for us, thinking it would be enough.
I dreamt of the days, nights, and evenings when her fingertips would entwine with mine and trace her beautiful smile. And I called it love. I longed for her and chronicled the accounts, portraying her as someone who had left me, and I called it love.
Yet, the pink angels who bestow unending kisses and never depart, while indulging in hash, say that someone was like autumn, here today and gone tomorrow.
~Shikhar
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Longing Illusion
RomanceExplore the emotional turmoil of love and loss in 'Longing Illusion.' This evocative piece delves into the depths of longing, regret, and the quest to hold onto a fleeting romance, only to discover that love can sometimes be a mere illusion.
