She wants to hold on to me like unfinished conversations, he thought. But those
conversations are lost when the threads which bind them have been
forgotten, new meanings creep in the midst as past slowly gathers itself
in the present.Slowly you repeat the beginnings in your mind, day after
day, hour after hour, as if in a mere repetition the conversation will
come to life, you slowly gather her shadow and put it in the back of the
pocket or an unread book, the book when it is opened, it is not the
same page and the shadow slowly eases past the last remembered
light...all the practiced phrases become a futile attempt to capture the
moment and you slowly lose the company of words.....how long was he
thinking like this? the cigarette he held in his hand was long burnt and
he was lucky this time that it dint burn his fingers as he often used
to do, the ashes had drifted on the open book sensing a wind behind
which flapped its dog eared pages...the glass on the table had begun to
form rings around its base and at the rim where his lips touched the
wine of the last night, the sediments settling down as the left over
wine had evaporated in the burning heat of the spring...it was unusual
for this time of the year to have so much sun, yet the clouds
alternated everyday as if keeping their promise with a tired sleepy
narrow alley where he used to live...the plate on the table reminded him
of the food he had cooked the day before, pieces of the yolk of the egg
still sticking to it and the salt strewn around the blue plate as
mocking stars on a moonless night.....
nice:)
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