There’s a delivery package on my table that I haven’t had the heart to open yet. It’s half past five and I’m still dressed in my black sweater and black jeans. I’m tired enough to hang my feet a few centimeters above the floor with the black socks still hugging them as I’ve stretched my body diagonally on the bed but not tired enough to not remove the black watch that lies gracefully on the study table with a white table clock, monochrome calendar and, a black pencil stand that has nothing but blue pens and black, and one bright pink pencil. My stomach’s rumbling and shooting me sharp punches to remind me of the two days I haven’t visited the dining table. But I’m trying to focus on the playlist playing into my ears that I was humming to on my way back but can’t seem to pay attention to now. My head’s spinning and I close my eyes shut; maybe it’ll help. But I’m sucked into a spiraling downfall and I don’t know if I should open my eyes or not. My feet are getting choked in the embrace and I chose to free them from the bondage. And now I’m sitting crossed legged on the mosaic floor with a rolled up black sock in my left hand, choked throat and welled up eyes.
I’ve been staring at the canvas with the steak of red and brown for the last fifteen minutes. The limelight wraps it in an air of importance I’m unable to give it. It’s the maze that traps me at lunch and, again at midnight when I’ve fluffed the pillow thrice, or anytime between, before or after.
It’s half past three in the morning and I’ve just finished wrapping up for the day. I wonder if you have too. I remember worrying about your schedule a long time ago. I remember worrying about it yesterday and right now in this moment. Except, it’s a wondering worry; the one’s you can’t stop from being so you try not to notice it. Say, do you take coffee shots in the mornings that were preceded by nights like these? I haven’t had coffee in a while. And I can’t remember the last time I went to the cafe that made coffee the way we liked it – bitter and strong.
There’s a wall
That has the door
To her Universe
Engraved on it.
And when you
Enter through it
You’ll see her with a glass of whiskey at the bar
In a black dress and, red lips.
You’ll find her drenched in sweat,
Walking out of the gym at seven the next morning.
She drapes a saree perfectly, you’ll praise
But then you’ll measure her integrity
Say, have you looked up at the sky tonight?
The stars are bright and,
The moon is new.
The five o’clock twilight is right around the corner. You can see it painting the white dining table in hues as though the sun’s hiding behind the black trench coat in the corner of the room like a child with a missing milk tooth. The room smells of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It’s been two years since I’ve been here and, I never realized how much I missed this place till she opened the mahogany door. Her smile is still the same. It’s just that there’s a few more grey strands and the wrinkles have grown deeper. But the smile is still the same. And she still wears the same shade of red, lined with a subtle maroon, highlighting her cupid’s bow in the most powerful way possible. You’d think she’d be delicate but her hugs embrace you with warmth and firmness. Do you know those hugs that are like a safe haven? The ones that make you feel safe? Like nothing could go wrong? Her hugs were like that; joining every broken fragment within you together.
Do you still lurk in that alley?
The one with the broken street light>
The one where you can hear children’s laughter
From the park around the corner?
This is where you left.
An alley behind the quarters; a place away from the crowd. Overgrown gardens and homely vehicles.
My hair’s drenched,
Cleansed with the scents of lavender
Dripping off, lining my nape with rainbows
As the two o’clock sun dances with it.
The blow dryer does a decent job but,
Nothing dries my rebellious curls
Better than you
Continue reading Daddy’s Little Girl