Dear You

Am I supposed to slowly lose all inhibition like a snake during ecdysis frees itself of old skin, and reach a point where words are blunt, and sharp like a tungsten needle? Or, am I supposed to use allegory, and slowly weave a tale out of these threads of delicate emotion? Nonetheless, there is only one thing in my heart, and it is a deep love. Not a love that is malodorous and reeks of self-loathing, or an introspective one that views destiny from different vantage points, but still gropes for an answer in the darkness, but a simple one. Maybe I haven’t been forthcoming, and my replies are often monosyllabic utterances, but you should know that between those “hmms” and “ohs”, this love burns within me. Don’t ever feel misunderstood, or abandoned. Do not think, even for a second, that you’re this rickety wooden shack, crumbling, unable to brave that gale of fate. You’re not. You and I are so different, and yet so alike because we’re capable of finding a pleasing note in this monotonous tune that is everyday life. That note, my dear, is far from the polyrhythm that old jealous men who know more than they admit, or break apart what I write say it is. I couldn’t care less about them anymore. Let their subtle sarcasm burn them alive. But a few who care know that our love is just a pure C, or a rich, deep B, and it still consumes us, doesn’t it? I look at your smile, and find meaning to all this scrounging for solace. It’s you—you are that meaning, that solace, that petrichor that invigorates me, and makes me want to smile back. My eccentricities never made me, and although poignant literature works my mind into a frenzy, making different streams of thought juxtapose, and form a whole like the sounds of Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond coming together, nothing moves my heart like knowing you. This isn’t caffeinated ardor, but it’s potent, and maybe I’m just letting everything out, but I’ve let my silence speak for far too long. I love you, and I’m not going to whisper with a kiss on the cheek this time. I’m going to shout aloud. I’ve been cooped up in that room that stinks of stale tobacco, working on my art, and it’s sadly time to journey, just when you’re finally here. But read these lines where poetry meets prose, not later, but now, and know that I’m crazy about you.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2017)

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