Erratically at night, I pondered on whether he loved my words more than he loved me. His hands clutched the body of the notebook, more heedfully than he held me. His fingertips ranged over the surface of the deteriorating pages, more frequently than they would graze at my very own skin. The way I wrote about him, made his thoughts manifest in the wild. And I refrained from leaving anything out. Every tiny little detail, every vindictive thought— poured itself out in the form of ink, that filled the once unmarked pages. Did he ever even love me? Or were my words all there was to us? I hastily scribbled down every thought, every question that ever obstructed me from acting congruously onto the paper. The ink was running free, just like my emotions which bled right through the pages. I knew he'd read it, so I kept on writing. Kept on writing, in hopes, that one day, I would finally be presented with an answer to the question, that had been pestering me like an itch I couldn't reach. When I got into the bed, the very next night, I found his hands gripping the little book ever so tightly; like it was the air he needed to breathe. My body remained unattended, mind restless. And just before sleep overtook my senses, I heard him whisper into my ear, "These words keep me warm on the many nights, that you don't."
YOU ARE READING
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
PoetryNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
