And slowly you learn to live in the present.
To..move on.
You do not remember.
The lunatic harvest moon does not make you recollect slow burning kisses on terracotta tiles.
The vast tamarind tree under which you walked, that spellbound night.
The rain.
The rain.
The rain.
The waltz that you stood still in.
The touch that was so fleeting, it was the heat you felt that told you something magical had happened.
You forget the fragrance of skin. The breath of shoulders- and laying your head on them. The feel of cotton on your fingers. Finding warmth in held hands.
You forget his smile. His eyes, as they’d seek you and then go still when they’d find you.
You forget feeling good.
And feeling alive.
You forget the butterflies. In your stomach and otherwise.
Coffee in the rain. And movies in the noon.
You forget the play of shadow on walls and the symmetry of light and dark.
No, you do not recall long conversations and midnight philosophy. You get used to long days and nights, all to yourself. You don’t open your eyes expecting to find him looking at you, with open, naked need.
You forget colour. And then, you forget black.
You live. In the present.
But the past lingers.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
