I have written a thousand words for you, stringing memories.
Of how the sun streamed in through the blue curtains, bright smiles, sipping chai in red cups, listening to the rain patter in the balcony, letting our feet dangle from the grills and arms stretched out wide.
I have waited, endlessly.
For your calls, to listen to your voice, to look at you, just once. The chance to make one last memory, a less painful one. To go back in time, apologize another time, weld, mend, and correct all those mistakes.
I have been strong, or so I hope.
For the pain to fade, tears to stop. To resist the urge to scream and shout, beg and fall, holding you responsible for all the broken pieces of my heart, crumbling into a heap. Trying to stop myself from going back to you, wandering in familiar lanes, tracing your fingertips on all that you touched.
I have left counting time, fervidly.
Days, months, years, since clocks haven’t ticked, the slow whirring of time disappearing. I hoped everything would stop, pause for a moment, acknowledge the death of my love. But neither have the hours halted, nor has the heart stopped beating.
I have learnt, agonizingly.
No two hearts beat to the same rhythm, no two kinds of love are the same. That I’ll still love you, eternally, some days fierce, and on others, you’ll make your presence felt.
You were gone, but you were always there.