You tell me that you look geeky in those big round glasses,

and I tell you that you got to be out of your mind. Those specks of glitter on your face that they say are your eyes- lined, all black in the most uneven fashion- are riveting as a Stephen King paperback and speak volumes, with just a single stare. You do not know how they sparkle behind those goggles, the ones you call nerdy.

You tell me that you like your evening tea a little sweeter on some days,

and a bit stronger on the other. Caffeine gets you going, you tell me, and that it gives you a rush. Then, why do you shut your bedroom door and draw the curtains and screech at zero decibels at three in the morning?

I know you have got scars on your skin and bruises on your heart, and of all the things you tell me, I guess this is the only one you choose to not.

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And I tell you, that I would never insist on making more.

You tell me that you like wearing my baggy XL t-shirts and feel all comfy when you let your hair run messy,

and the time when you don’t have to care about the way you look. You like the smell of worn out sepia books and the way sandalwood whiffs, especially the incense’s, at temples.

The world’s a paradox, you tell me. Demons residing in it resemble angels and are called humans. They have their own wicked schemes to destruct and they lyingly smile their angst away. On the first page of our story the future had seemed so bright, you tell me. And I love the way you lie about how you hate references to Rihanna songs.

You tell me that the sound of silence makes you happy on days when you’re just done with words, and the world. You hate the word ‘love’, you tell me, for you never get any, but let me tell you that you’ve got it all wrong for now.

You tell me you hated the way we’d met for the first time. It was a July evening, near a city crossroad by the Plum Bakery. It was a wild bump, and you’d scrunched up your nose. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, I tell you.

And now you tell me that love is not a two-way street. But darling, how could you forget that we found ours on one?


Sent to The Scribbled Stories by Ashish Sharma

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