20

I do not have to promise, but I will.

This will be my last letter to you.

It was written before you had told me you were leaving; in the gap, between you deciding to stop answering my calls, and you deciding again to love me, your way.

Let us just pretend I like the sound of the ink on paper.

Humor me, for a change.

Stand by me.

“Good old song. Stand by me when I need you, I always need you, so stand by me always.

When they call out for you, do not hear them, not do not listen to them.

When they request your attention, heed only me, they are not visible.

When you fold your arms, do not fold them in vane, because there is no empty space in-between, I am there.

When you spread down on your mattress, do not bother to make space for me, I can just fit in your crevices.

When you shower, rub your body gently, yet firmly; I like your firm touch on my back.

Test not the temperature of water, it is always right.

Comb your hair just enough for the eastern breeze to cool through our bodies.

Snore or not when you sleep, no one will be awakened, there is only us, and we do not mind.

I like green; I like it better since we have to wear it, summer or sleet, its green.

My temper flows and when it swells, your body caves in for your soul to wrap me. Mine is always encompassing, but allows all light pass through, may be that is why you do not see it.

You splash me with color, for you to recognize me, do you not know that after just few seconds, the color diffuses away, escapes, disintegrates, leaves me, and stains the clouds. Have’nt you noticed how clouds are colored sometime.

Do not add substance to me as I have none, it all seeps away into the sands of shores and the foam of waves.

That is why, someone had said- may be Jibran- that waves and sand are in constant lovemaking.

A good old song, but alas, the flying bird did not care to listen. Then, he did not hear.

You do not see what you do not listen to, and you do not feel what you do not allow into you.

Barracks of dry bricks, between which weeds grow, dry as the feathering stones around them, they cannot dampen themselves despite the vapor in the air, and they just do not know how to do it. They have not listened to the old rhyme, always floating in the air, whispering to everything, to let all in, then all will seep through and there will be light. Giving is the expression of the beauty allowed in; it just flows all around like the scent of a daffodil.

Few, think that daffodils do not have a scent, well ask the daffodils and you will get the answer.

Airs keep showing that they contain all lights and are generous enough to show it sometimes, as rainbows, for all to see, few do, less feel, less know.”

When simplicity becomes difficult, I un-mold myself from you, and move away.”

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