Between the lines

Sandwiched between

Every two words

There is a word

I dare not utter…

Metaphorics

Never worked

With you

Never will it be…

To proclaim it

I am too shy

To admit it

I am too proud

-I miss you!

What I told you

A squirrel has built its nest on my windowsill. I want you to come and see my forcibly adopted kiddies, when they open their eyes.

 I fell from the bicycle and scraped my knees.

 I picked a fight with the bus conductor, because I caught him leaning on a schoolgirl.

My hair had grown two more inches. There are a few grey hairs, emerging here and there. Is growing old at 24, premature?

I cleaned my table and found a wrapper of a chocolate we had shared ages ago.

My slipper was scrapping again. Perhaps it is the roads I walk on-or is it just me?

My umbrella has grown frail, it cannot hold the rain anymore; perhaps, what it sends inside for me must be the the most gorgeous raindrops.

I broke a door handle, a tap and dropped a cup from my mother’s most treasured set-thus I was banished from the kitchen for two days.  Why is china worthier than the services of an efficient kitchen aide?

Hindi songs are my new lovers. Like the midnight hunger, that sends you down the stairs at the twelfth hour of the day, I creep into my desk, switch on the machine and listen to the same songs over and again. Please do thank the person who invented the earphones, on behalf of my family members.

What I didn’t tell you

My mirror has gathered dust. And I have forgotten what my face looks like. Perhaps you remember.

I miss the shoulder against which I fall asleep, the hand that disciplines my uncurbed hair and the tone of guilt in your voice when you say we are home.

I miss the scent of your perfume; you rub off on me when we hold hands in our usual Friday walks.

I see your face in my morning tea. Perhaps, this madness has  long lost its method.

What I carry around is a memory; a collection of days and minutes I took a lot for granted.

It serves  me right!