I guess it’s time to bid adieu to this slipshod romance — a shared delusion that we allowed to suppurate over years and years of jaded flowers sent and lackadaisical love letters penned with dying ballpoints.
Reality cut us to the bone a long time ago, but we selfishly conditioned our eyes to not see the hackneyed chipped off desk, the cracked paperweight, the moldy paper and the leaking redundant ink pen.
We mooched off each other’s sorrow and self-pity for so long and believed that sorrowed, cracked shell which enclosed us — grimy and spotty — was love.
We reached a stage where bitterness coursed through our veins and arteries, tainting our hearts a sordid green and hardening them, but still pretended using forced tears, forced guttural wails, forced smiles and facades of affection like gaudy graffiti on a crumbling, hurting wall.
We thought we’d possess blueberry sunsets and halcyons; spirits of bountiful, beautiful forests; skyscrapers and pulsing fancy locomotives, but fate granted us what we deserved — a pseudo-Leprechaun’s empty beggar’s bowl.
I guess it’s time to bid adieu to this slipshod romance — this abstract pipe-dream like a chimeric vision of a torn slipper possessing the will to fasten our feet and prevent them from scraping the spittle riddled ground.
Originally published in P.S. I Love You
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)