the sound of shattering glass

 It is just a story I want you to know. I want to trade a secret with you. Sometimes people confuse intimacy with physical intimacy. It is not that. I read this somewhere. Intimacy is trading of secrets in the dark. I have been very intimate with you. I have been you. And you have been me. Yes, me. In the moments we did that, we were intimate. But the day broke before we could trade all our secrets. The darkness ditched us, you and me. Our story couldn't end. It is broken, unfinished. I couldn't tell you many things I feel I should have. And I definitely wanted to know you more. Oh, so much more. I have moved into a new place. Change is the hardest thing to take in such circumstances. I don't go out of my room much. I stay in here and imagine I am with you. I part my curtains to play with the wind-chime that hung from your window. And I don't find it. There are these pangs that my heart feels it wouldn't survive, any longer. A feeling of a sudden loneliness, a realization that happens only again and again. When I part the curtains, to look out of the window, I see a graveyard. When I wake up in the night, crying, I stare at the graveyard where the dead lay, in forced peace. I secretly look at them, so that they don't get to know that I am looking. I wonder if they walk at night. I wonder if I could talk to them. I want to stay shut and scream aloud at the same time. I say I hate you and I love you in the same breath. I do. I had started writing about something else, and have ended up having written about something entirely different. But I will let this go, like I let everything else go. Like I let you go. My secrets suffocate me thesedays that I have noone to trade them with. So much that I want to talk to ghosts. Yeah..


Anyway..