to the only oliver i ever knew,
On a Sunday early morning when I know I have nothing to do, I run through my wardrobe to put things exactly how i want them. Sheet by sheet, books by books, and a pile of clothes folded one at a time. It isn’t much but it keeps me occupied. Almost dismisses a perennial nostalgia for the year before this one and the one before that and all the ones before that.
In the background, somewhere around this time the church gets very crowded for the weekly mass, and if you listen carefully you can hear every word. but paying attention is not anywhere on my CV. So it is easy for me to ignore the checklist i found last week. It read in no particular order, a bookhouse, some films, an empty park, shopping.
In truth, it’s a small bucket-list from 2 years ago that i didn’t know i still had with me. i clutch to it, assuring it’s still mine, before leaving it where it was. Like a toy to a child, it tells me i can come back to this feeling when I want. I am allowed.
10 years from today, I will no longer know why the letter has a tinge of orange scented perfume but today i remember, and shayad(perhaps) it is still your favorite.
It is still only the beginning of the day. noon and sunset aren’t capable of this emotion. it asks me if it can stay, so i tuck it slowly under my pillow.
“here you’re safe.
here you can live.
with me again. in parts.”
I do not know what else to say, so I instantly dial home, tell mother what i ate for breakfast. and how the Bangalore weather makes it impossible for people to take cold showers. Your entire body would freeze.
Like the emotions. Lust at their core.