of sweet .somethings.

Your eyes glow
Mine reflect it in slow-mo
We gesture wildly
In sync with our voices
That ring with the electricity of a child’s-
Loud, uncouth, yet so real.
This is more intimate than the slowest slow dance
The sexiest kiss
Coz it’s a snapshot
Of who we are;
And who we will be
In the long shot.
We will grow old and gray together
My breasts will sag, your belly will expand
But that spark-
The sparkle in your eye-
Will outlast the norms, the mores
And mine will reflect it in slow-mo.

I haven’t been in love. Ever. But this is how I imagine it will be.

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the lost .

In the last year I’ve managed to lose this really cute pencil pouch that was a gift from my friend, a shiny green wallet with my Landmark membership card in it (gifted by the same friend), my copy of Anne Frank signed by AR Rahman years ago before Slumdog happened (V, K and I had seen him buying something in Landmark and we asked him to autograph the books we were buying, due to lack of anything else to sign.. but it was pretty cool!), textbooks (Economics and Biology), coins, this yellow and black mechanical pencil and other things that meant so much to me (the Bio and Eco text are exceptions).

Anyway, I can’t get how these things just disappear! Seriously, where do they go? Do other people come across them and wonder where it came from and what kind of a person the owner was? Do they collect in this random place labeled LOST in the middle of nowhere? Because I can totally picture that!

It’s weird finding things as well. Like I borrowed Brat Farrar from my aunt and she asked me to keep it. It looked really old and looked like it had once been a library book with due dates dating fifty years back (Tom Riddle’s diary? I wish!)! It has passed hands, continents (yup, from USA to India and maybe places in between), second hand stores (possibly) and the folds, tears and coffee stains probably marked by these things, memories that probably mean so much to someone out there.

Perhaps someone’s thinking about Brat Farrar now, and picturing the dog eared copy that wasn’t so dog eared then… my copy, filled with history, a past more overwhelming than mine.