Path

"I love the poems you write," she told me on a lazy monsoon night.

"But I haven't written one since a very long time," I replied, scratching the hair on my head in an attempt to recollect when I had last penned down a poem.

"Anyways, I love them whenever you write," she was too sweet.

I smiled. The longing was habitual; as I waited each day for the sun to finally set, the moon to arrive with its silken aura, and the two hands of the clock to conjoin and seal our fate at 12.

The rain drops rattled against my window, forcefully, as if trying to gather enough strength to barge across the shady contours of my dimly lit room. I stood up, and walked towards the glass panes, trying to decipher what lay outside. All I could see were shadows, making a mockery of my feeble heart.

"I love you," I wish I could write that. Instead, I replied, "I will write something for you tomorrow." If distraught was a God, I might well have been one of His avatar. Tears do not obey my commands. They just flow, rudely, crudely.

"Wow. I will be waiting for it," pat came the reply.

I try to regulate the motion of my fingers, as they too, like my tears, were eager to disobey my futile orders, and wanted to type down the story of my heart. I waited a long time, before I finally typed the message - "I lost my poem when I lost you, when our paths separated, when our minds dissected our clammy souls, rendering our wishes useless with the excuse of being too naive and impractical."

I erase what I wrote. I just reply, "Sure, I will let you know."


This Micro-Fiction is shared with

• Three Word Wednesday - Distraught, Habitual, Regulate.
• Sunday Scribblings - Path.