The dust settles slowly on the lost novelty of new ( but now old) love. Nowhere near as exciting and spontaneous as it used to be, but present all the same. You get used to it. That's where the real challenge lies: do you keep it, or do you cast it away and look for a new adventure?
I like keeping it.
There's something charming about completing his sentences and speaking out his thoughts. It feels like belonging to something/one.
And that's what I always wanted.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Rain.
Think about a balmy monsoon night, summer damp intensified by droplets of water pitter pattering onto the ground in a seaside city. They have explanations for why it hardly ever rains here, something found in my geography book, a tidbit of information I filed away in the crevices of my mind for future reference. It seems to have slipped out, but no matter, let me continue. Rainy nights.
Sitting by windows with a cup of tea in hand staring out at the rain, suppressing silly urges to dance under the water pouring from a black, black sky, at such an ungodly hour. A shake of the head, as if to shrug off the randomness of such an idea, although not without a smile. And then the lights come back.
As it rains in the early morning, just as the sun rises, the trees (not so easily found, not so easily flowering) shine in various shades of emerald. In winter when the weather is almost chilly (almost, because it's never entirely chilly in this coastal city. Refer again to aforementioned geography book, another tidbit, excuse me, has escaped my mind.) and a light drizzle kisses the sparkling greens, it is easily forgotten that this is a city by the sea. For perhaps a very, very short while, as the sun has just-awakened from its slumber, it looks like a tiny bit like a hill station in summer months. Or maybe it's my imagination, spiralling out of my control. I imagine it ( my imagination) to be a blue eyed little girl with jet black springy curls laughing at something that catches her attention and manages to hold it.
And when I think of rain, I think of love.
I think of you.
Always.
It didn't rain this year, I wish it had.
Sitting by windows with a cup of tea in hand staring out at the rain, suppressing silly urges to dance under the water pouring from a black, black sky, at such an ungodly hour. A shake of the head, as if to shrug off the randomness of such an idea, although not without a smile. And then the lights come back.
As it rains in the early morning, just as the sun rises, the trees (not so easily found, not so easily flowering) shine in various shades of emerald. In winter when the weather is almost chilly (almost, because it's never entirely chilly in this coastal city. Refer again to aforementioned geography book, another tidbit, excuse me, has escaped my mind.) and a light drizzle kisses the sparkling greens, it is easily forgotten that this is a city by the sea. For perhaps a very, very short while, as the sun has just-awakened from its slumber, it looks like a tiny bit like a hill station in summer months. Or maybe it's my imagination, spiralling out of my control. I imagine it ( my imagination) to be a blue eyed little girl with jet black springy curls laughing at something that catches her attention and manages to hold it.
And when I think of rain, I think of love.
I think of you.
Always.
It didn't rain this year, I wish it had.
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