.a written note.

It's a Monsoon cold night and I have the main door and a window open as the clock meets midnight. Having wrapped in blankets and an old Red sweater, I have my pet sleeping next to bed, as calmly as ever. I don't mind spending the rest of these cold hours looking at him sleeping so peacefully. He knows I'll be there. I know he always is. I guess this is what I'd call contentment. I guess I am, now, contented. I see books in front, but I restrict myself from reading because I cannot allow myself of the involvement if I have something else in mind too. Nights here are getting colder, darkening the thoughts that lately live in mind. Early mornings are always pleasant but perhaps I have got nothing in my pocket yet. Just yet. Forgive me, I can't write more.

As I be with A, the sound of his laughter over the silly things I say and the way he speaks makes us think of things like we have kept a rear-view mirror in front of our eyes. As we sit on the floor, talking endlessly, I remember I'm doing this after what it feels like ages. The tiny little houses we see from here form an association with the things we talk about and I realize what I needed to. The usual food we make suddenly tastes better because we know we're together. This too will pass. The oldness will cover up the time that we choose to share today. But the words will echo, making too many spaces in my life that I have emptied feel grassy again. The walls inside me have absorbed the sounds and the scent of this time just so life may fade it but it'll never go away. Sometimes the walls seem to have imaginary hands that do not let me get back, and I'm pretty sure those walls aren't always called home. The desire to peek at the places I see from the same mir