letters to my ex

cadillac eldorado, then?

dear you,

i hate dining table conversations and Sunday mornings. They have a tendency of turning the most lurid of things into reminders, possibly signs of life from you and them.

// Sunday morning, and my phone doesn't ring. i take a bath and move my senses towards the kitchen and my fingers linger on the granite branded on the slab; crafted the way nans wanted it to be. i bake myself a sandwich, me - who never touched a bread or a piece of cheese, since i ate what maa cooked with desi ghee rolling over the base, chanting hazardous risks of cheese and butter over ghee she offered. i eat one slice with a glass of tea, sans ginger and the masala, maa used to mix in it. With every sterile bite i've, my brain reclines with a morbid soliloquy.

Here's the thing;
i'm thinking about how i could be in a car with you instead of tapping the fork with the spoon,
i could be the one driving and you could be the one staring out the window and i'd always be looking over at you.

i'd always be in that car,
but sometimes i won't reach you,
and sometimes you'd fall asleep,
and sometimes i'd let the car spin out and you'd try to yank the wheel from my grasp but it would be too late.

i'd always be in that car,
but sometimes we would be running away,
accelerating and flying down the expressway.
Skipping towns, dodging stops and running reds,
we would be fleeing but never fast enough.

i'd always be in that car,
but sometimes we would be driving on orbital roads towards Jupiter.
i'd ask you if the world still looks unbearably lonely from the star's point of view,
you wouldn't know how to answer it.

i'd always be in that car,
but sometimes you won't be there.
sometimes i'd be the only one here,
and i would listen to blisters on the moon on a loop,
as if the radio won't ever function.
i'd drive and i'd fly and i'd flee and i'd run and i'd scream and i'd be alone and i'd die; as planned.

// Cutlery clatters upon the empty plate and my chair scraps against the marble flooring.
If this dining table monologue is becoming a memory, does that have to mean that i've to watch its funeral in order to appreciate this story or would the moths of what i want will eat me in my reverie, too?

Dear Anurag,

I need to say all of it. I'm not sure if you would want to hear (or read) any of this, but once again, I've decided to be selfish.
Regardless of whether you would hear it or not, I want to make a shot in the void. At least, this is what I've been doing for the past few months. When you first proposed the prospect of writing to you, I thought that this was too silly and highly susceptible. I mean even if we tried, we couldn't possibly document everything that happened, right? Weren't we always fleeting? So, that was that, I thought that I could disassociate the way I always do. By the time you would have come back, all of this would have probably digressed and morphed into something else. But of course, that's where my gut had to intervene and interrupt. I started to preserve moments as and when they were happening. I tried to capture my moods and reality through it since I didn't know how long before I'm gone. With every line I wrote, I used to sneak in stuff that I wouldn't have the courage to lay down bare. ( Call me a coward)
Yet there were certain times like today, right now, where I'm too devoid of words. I know, it's funny how I'm contradicting myself with each syllable I punch in but that's the thing, I couldn't possibly have documented you a gloomy day spent in bed thinking about all the would have's in life, right? After all, you were this last speck of light amidst all this darkness. I didn't have it in me to dampen it. As much as this sounds dumb, it's true. I've always envied your resilience.
As I write or rather type this, everything's just still and silent. The sound of the occasional car driving past on the highway is all that I've heard other than the clock ticking since the past one hour which for some unknown reason makes me melancholic just like many other things without any specific reason and also, it takes me back to those days. It's all too numb and cold and it just exists, like I do.
Anyways, I do hope that the birds start to chirp soon and break this streak of deadness. I do have a lot more to say but I probably won't be able to due to all the sedatives I've taken in the last quarter of an hour.

yours,