Bedtime Stories of Disintegration

This one’s for a certain Ms. Mathur. She needs her bedtime story. 

There is no emotion with less clarity than desire. It consumes you completely and renders you crazy, blind and hot all over. You’re burning with anger, with frustration. You’re on your knees with your hands outstretched because you want to touch something absolutely unearthly to you. You have not seen or felt this way before but in the presence of this one thing. What is it that attracts us to the unknown, you ask? I would not know. I am too young to tell, maybe.

But, here she was. On her knees, with her hands outstretched. Just like you. She touched his face like it was the first time she touched it. There was nothing to it but beauty. She smiled because she felt every nuance of the face with her fingers. The way his eyelids shut as she run her hands over them, his thick eyelashes, the bend on his nose, the dents on the sides of his smile, his lips, his long neck. She felt it all. She drew a picture in her head. She did not have the skill The Guy with The Upper Hand did, but she tried. She tried hard to get him right every time. But, every time she knew it was better with her eyes open.

She blinked, over and over. He laughed at her because he did not understand. It had to be perfect. How did it matter to him? He was leaving. Departure is a tragedy only for those left behind. Left behind, left behind, left behind. It does not take the pain away. No amount of repetition, no amount of reassurance takes it away. Take it away, take it away, take it away.

I want to scream at you. I want to tell you I love you. I want to shake you to see if you even feel anything. Feel something, feel something, feel something. I want to touch you and feel the curve of your elbows and the base of your neck. I could run my fingers around your ears and count your beauty spots. Don’t mock me. It’s all beauty to me.

Time is running out. I have to tell you so much.

But, we slowly disintegrate. We’re only a memory. I could only ask for so much time for you and me. I could fall in fragments on the floor in front of you. Pick me up and keep me with you? Wouldn’t that be a lovely end to this story? I could be a bottle in your pocket.

Or we could open our eyes and realise this moment never happened? We’re living a waking dream, Sunshine. We’re living out our best fantasies in an alternate universe where you believe me when I tell you you’re perfect. In that place between then and now, till we meet, I could count your flaws over and over.

I don’t.

I won’t.

I can’t.

I mustn’t.

Repitition will kill this. It won’t matter soon.

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