"When your soul is gone out of your style!"

There is sunlight sneaking through the ajar windows, and the rays seems like they have bathed in pensiveness and  drank themselves a palm full of dreams. The afternoon silence has frowned at my negligence to its provoking heat and gross wilderness. The grass outside has started to grow as they like. Untamed. Unpruned. Wild. They have an air of being ‘gently ferocious’. I don’t know whether they would smile at my oxymoron if they hear it. They look so much themselves that there is happiness running through their blades by mild wind. And I tossed my head with them.

I looked up and saw the roaming birds

My heart leaped with my galloping thoughts

The flutters, the beats and the shivers

I hold my breath and closed my eyes

But there was still mutter in between my lips.

Sometimes I get freeze beside you in a bewilderment that emerges out of my inability to loosen up all the enmeshing voice inside me, that there is so much of pending musings that has to catch up and unleash to you. You told me that you liked me best when I read aloud poetry to you. And you always preferred Keats and his odes. You became his Nightingale, the Autumn, the Grecian urn and the Melancholy. But did you know that you were my prime melancholy? The sweetest and the inexorable melancholy I ever tasted. And you were like a wilted flower when there is "no poetry between us and when your soul is gone out of style". And then I would bring up some fanciful analogy for your flaccid face and cold eyes. You hated when I try to paraphrase my feelings to you. Paraphrasing for you was like besmirching the beauty and challenging the passion out of it. Passion. I envied you for it all the time. So much of passion whirling in your eyes. In your actions. In your aspirations. I feared it. Loved it. Awed it. And yes I thought of it even as your hamartia. Be proud of it since a fatal flaw out of passion is worth suffering. There is bravery and grandeur in it.

I have always imagined the switching of moments and people to mere memories. And there are some people whose shifting to existence as a memory is inconceivable. The reminiscences of certain people that can wrench my heart and rip my soul. The moments my love for them becomes so distinct as red on white. A kind of excruciating abstractness that these memories bring will circle themselves an existence of emotions that I cannot plainly touch or feel. May be that’s why I fail to sustain myself in any kind of virtual world. May be that’s why I always tilt sideways to a reality out there that can pull back my soaring reveries so that I taste life’s contradictions and contrasts altogether in a unfamiliarly familiar sphere.