Almas Sadique

I am twenty years of broken dreams bundled up in curiosity. I am too many feet deep in self pity, And no amount of kicking helps me breathe. I am too poor in grief, So, my latest muse is the worst of what I feel. Some days, I want to weed myself out, Crawl to the precipice and see if someone holds my feet. I search for the flaws that don't exist, And the pain that I am entitled to, So that this melancholia makes sense. I try, on loop, to unravel the curiosity of my being so, Only to end up vexed and forlorn. I envision slaying contentment, And then seeking it again. I am quintessentially sceptic and dissatisfied, And that's how I go through.

If I could listen to one million stories during a lifetime, I would listen to them with you, or rather, listen to you. The summers, I'd spend listening to tales of your notoriety that landed you in trouble; and the monsoons, when the smell  of petrichor would fill my nostrils, I'd talk to you about the puddles you jumped into, as a kid. Come autumn, and I'd hear you sing your favourite song, shedding all inhibitions in front of me; and during wintry nights, I'd snuggle up next to you and hear of all the overwhelming moments that rendered you speechless. The tales of your carefree days would fill the next in line-the days of Spring. Your stories theme into genres in my library-one for each season and one for every kiss. They are the lyrics that tune to the notes of your mood. They are the essence that ensues when two souls entwine.