The rains do not stop. I have filled up the skies with charcoal scribbles, writing you letters in a million tongues. Trees shoot out new shoots, curled at the tips, greenish-red new leaves who form an intricate zari behind which infinity hangs.
I will be flying over 6000 miles away, wingless over blue oceans, watching seagulls dip and clouds flaking off, the sun undressing, tinsel-stars, all adorning gallons of atmosphere. But despite the maddening excitement, I pin away, missing you on the rough pages of my passport, or chaotic visas. I know I will be home even before you can actually miss me, but sometimes a single day runs into hours, spinning layers on itself recursively. I want you.
I want us.
On similar nights like this, I count fireflies and heartbeats. The rain runs her long fingers on the veranda railings. A multitude of stinging lyrics pool in the vacuoles of my being. I talk to none. I talk of none. On the retina, life flares into polaroids of illusive happiness. I can still feel myself sinking. In the burgeoning dark, I crush emptiness to my breasts hoping it would take your shape.