Année
I loved you in October. The trees were dry on their branches and so were we, in the little specks of humour scattered between us. People decked themselves up for Halloween and I did too, with wispy dreams of fireplaces, snow-clad villages and old books that smelt of comfort. Time sailed its paper planes in the air and I watched, watched as you soared and soared on them, higher and higher.
I dreamt in November. It was a month of winter's tentative entry, unlike the proud march which it had discarded in defeat to warmth so many years ago. You were still high above, and I was too, but lost in fantasies, of wooden cabins in lonely forests and whispered conversations. The chill evaded my touch, just like you, both free spirits, destined for greatness. I closed my eyes and longed for both. The winter for its cold, and you for warmth. The irony of it all mocked me through my wardrobe of winter wear.
I prayed in December, when the lights lit up the city and even the winter's white cloak. Prayed for what I never know, as I looked at the sky at twilight and drew Leo with my fingers. Maybe for a Christmas tree, a lost childhood, a lost tradition, a lost faith. But you were there in the back of my mind, always, for don't you see? I adored you. For you I had affection, pride, love and wonder. But I did not want you. This was a strange love, meant to be unrequited, and perhaps longed to be so, too. But even as I said so to myself, covering myself in thick blankets and thinking of church services and missing carols, I wanted you. Your bright eyes and that slight, mysterious smile, but my eyes then were only made for the yellowing pages of the dog-eared Christmas romance to be read by the lamp's glow. Nostalgia. Everywhere. And only mine.
I made a promise in January, at new year. To let you go. To let the thoughts of you go; ha, when did I ever hold you? For how and why should an eagle dream of the sun, however high it flies? The city was decked for celebration, resolutions made everywhere to be broken, but on my couch, with the wind's low, hollow call and the countdown yelled from somewhere on the television, I told myself that this was one promise I would keep.
But I could not. I thought of you when the cuckoo called untimely in late January, when the moon was full over the river as they dumped the idol of the goddess down in February, when the flowers bloomed everywhere and chicken pox sneaked into houses in March. I saw you in the dusty alleys in the forgotten corners of the city in the dusty heat April, in the longing for the mountains in the sweltering heat of May, in a sneaky vacation in June and the unforgiving workload of July. I floated paper boats in August, and imagined you getting drenched in a sudden downpour. I lay down on my terrace in the unsure heat of September, and saw your face in the stars as Orion sank away, and as the cars honked their way through my solitude. And in the crazy crowds and the heartbeat-quickening sound of the dhaak, with you in that panjabi with your piercing eyes and me, invisible as always, well, I loved you in October.
I dreamt in November. It was a month of winter's tentative entry, unlike the proud march which it had discarded in defeat to warmth so many years ago. You were still high above, and I was too, but lost in fantasies, of wooden cabins in lonely forests and whispered conversations. The chill evaded my touch, just like you, both free spirits, destined for greatness. I closed my eyes and longed for both. The winter for its cold, and you for warmth. The irony of it all mocked me through my wardrobe of winter wear.
I prayed in December, when the lights lit up the city and even the winter's white cloak. Prayed for what I never know, as I looked at the sky at twilight and drew Leo with my fingers. Maybe for a Christmas tree, a lost childhood, a lost tradition, a lost faith. But you were there in the back of my mind, always, for don't you see? I adored you. For you I had affection, pride, love and wonder. But I did not want you. This was a strange love, meant to be unrequited, and perhaps longed to be so, too. But even as I said so to myself, covering myself in thick blankets and thinking of church services and missing carols, I wanted you. Your bright eyes and that slight, mysterious smile, but my eyes then were only made for the yellowing pages of the dog-eared Christmas romance to be read by the lamp's glow. Nostalgia. Everywhere. And only mine.
I made a promise in January, at new year. To let you go. To let the thoughts of you go; ha, when did I ever hold you? For how and why should an eagle dream of the sun, however high it flies? The city was decked for celebration, resolutions made everywhere to be broken, but on my couch, with the wind's low, hollow call and the countdown yelled from somewhere on the television, I told myself that this was one promise I would keep.
But I could not. I thought of you when the cuckoo called untimely in late January, when the moon was full over the river as they dumped the idol of the goddess down in February, when the flowers bloomed everywhere and chicken pox sneaked into houses in March. I saw you in the dusty alleys in the forgotten corners of the city in the dusty heat April, in the longing for the mountains in the sweltering heat of May, in a sneaky vacation in June and the unforgiving workload of July. I floated paper boats in August, and imagined you getting drenched in a sudden downpour. I lay down on my terrace in the unsure heat of September, and saw your face in the stars as Orion sank away, and as the cars honked their way through my solitude. And in the crazy crowds and the heartbeat-quickening sound of the dhaak, with you in that panjabi with your piercing eyes and me, invisible as always, well, I loved you in October.
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