You were that lazy sip of wine under the beaming silver of falling stars. You would swirl on my skin, tingle my tongue and tease my throat till my lips would break into a dimming smile and my eyes would spill love.
My fingers traced… they traced the chiseled edges of your jaw just like they run over the cracked hem of my wine glass.
You were special…
You… you were the rare cassette. One that’s worthy of honoring every vintage collection. Kept in a case of shimmering gold; draped in velvet.
You would sing the songs of pinching nostalgia, paint the walls with colors of retro sepia and calm my nerves like forbidden magic.
You were rare…
But then… every writer has a fancy oil lamp in her room, and I am no exception!
Every night, I feed some oil to its fire. It burns with somber brilliance and dies by midnight.
Every night, I stare at its dying flame like a doomed lunatic. I stare long enough for its soul to haunt my eyes every time I blink.
Every night, I witness fate! I listen to its hushed lessons as it howls back at me!
Flames die, you see!
Now… sitting beside those dying flames, sipping on wine out of my crooked wine glass and listening to a stuck cassette tape… I know what made you leave…
Flames died sooner than I wanted them to!
– Gauri Walecha