Affair of the Decade

To write love songs on her arms, holding it under the bright night, and reading the letters that so explicitly hold your feelings. Is this love, the mind that is undeniably flying and the skies that are blushing. Every flower will have wilted, the sonnets overly narrated and the tides consciously spelt—but the moment that is but a gemstone of satisfaction, a holographic temptation.

There is no better way to describe, but the already choreographed scene that is taking over. It’s as if one had to be conditioned, to wait for the day when he/she first fell in love, and with it, subjectify the rumors that surround.

And every word, it will feel real when she will hold your hands for the first time. There is a light breeze over the pointless sky, but the hour that is already submerged. Some say its magic, but the ones that feel it, a dire need to fly, to write journals and craft poetry that will, for the least define what it felt like.

Close to the pulsating heart, people no longer share, or what is love if it’s not romanticized when it should have been. The foils, little spoils in heaven, seldom hour of ecstasy—who is it that shines now?

There was once, the two who were meant to be despite the storm raging against them. People so fluently talked, but the ones who never did, those that perhaps understood too much. She was magical, who had to show him the light, those that only shun once in an entire lifetime.

In the quest to understand better, one has to know the origins of his past. He would have vanished, but her fragrance that always attracted the spotlight, pulling him closer each second. Both knew, the dwelling emotion that was no coincidence.

Nights swept through the aisle, with slowest of the seconds rushing in denial, and the ever-growing thought of seeing the person on the next day. Is this what love meant, the onset that was unquestionably clear.

And the next day is just as sweet as the rose at the end of the track touched by her feet. She plucked a flower, as if it were his heart, gently touching the stems that were too afraid to tell her, foregoing the slightest of the distractions—she walks closer to him, smiling like she never did.

The flower was meant to, and it still lies inside his diaries, now that everything is but a remembrance. Just as every beautiful thing fades, so did their love. It shan’t be called a tragedy because the rhetoric’s of their love affair that makes it so much more.

Oblivious to their own feelings, one had to break the other. Perhaps it’s the only way things operate, and most certainly love does. There is no worse feeling than that of seeing your lover hold someone else’s hands as you walk the same road that was once at the epicenter of your feelings.

-Yogesh Chandra