Yes now I am finding my happiness because you were the one who I thought to be
Cool and good buddy and so on
“Why don’t you write about us?”
My pen stops mid sentence. I’d been struggling to write since the past few days and today had been no different. You’d probably seen me struggling and failing each time.
I look up from my journal and you’re sitting by the window, smoking and listening to your favorite music - a sight that is so familiar to me that it feels like home.
“Why don’t you?” you ask again.
“I don’t know what to write.”
“Liar”, you try sounding angry but I sense a smile behind the smoke of your cigarettes.
“I’ll write about us. Someday.”
“What will you write?”
“I don’t know yet. But I will.”
“Liar,” You say again and I burst out laughing this time. You go back to your music and I pick up my pen again.
What will I write about us?
Will I write about the magic that we create? Or the fights that break me?
Or the blue shirt that I borrowed from you, the one that smells of you and when I wear it, I feel like I have you wrapped around me like a blanket.
Or about those glorious sunsets we saw together and the many sunrises we missed.
Or how you taught me to brew the perfect cup of tea because the ones I made were an insult to chai.
Or how I find it hard to cry in front of my parents, but I shamelessly shed tears in front of you, because the first time I saw you in a fit of rage, it shook my soul.
Or how I still have those roses you got me (even though I hate roses), dried and pressed between a picture of us from happier times and the pages of Yeats’s poem “When You Are Old”.
Maybe I’ll write about the time that I thought you’d leave. But you didn’t. You stayed.
Or the time when I thought you’d stay. Yet you left.
I don’t know what I’ll write about. But someday, I’ll be brave to make you my muse.
Till then, I’ll just be a liar.