Aftertaste of Cigarettes and Memories

Four monsoons have walked past me since we last met. And four monsoons weren’t enough to rinse your fragrance away from my body. So I packed your memories in the cigarettes you used to smoke, just to whiff them all one last time before smoking them all out. They lit my insides to such fire, torrential rains couldn’t put them to rest.

None of the girls who came after you admired the aftertaste of those cigarettes. Would you tell those girls it is not me alone, but the anger your memories keep spitting out since they made my insides their tiny home?

I miss the valleys silhouettes of your curves made when the spring sun shone graciously in my balcony. And now when there are not valleys and no silhouettes, my heart aches to take the plunge.

That spring, we made the promise of spending all springs together. Four springs have passed by, and the sun has never shone so graciously in my balcony. I think, since then, the sun is mocking the hollowness of the promises we made.

But today, when I will see you walking down the aisle. I promise (not a hollow one), I will sprinkle your favorite Lilys all over the path you will walk and bear smiles as genuine as your love for him.

Today, when you will recite your vows in front of him, I hope it floods the home your memories made inside me, putting fires to rest at last.

And I will wish all the happiness to you in this world. But, someday, if I could trade all my universe just to be with you in a parallel universe, I would not hesitate a second.

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