Here’s a letter I wrote for the girth.
Here you are, lying in the middle of a half thought of-hiatus, shouldering the weight of words, a forlorn author had meant for someone else, of course. You choose to write letters mistaking them for others, but to end up dedicated only to you.
At midnight, when the exhausted sigh and the broken breathe, the insomnia running in your veins makes you rage like a bull trampling its hooves on the civilization. You lie down, investigating the lives of a person you’ll never know, or reading about people who cannot be read.
Those black eyes laugh with glee when they see full marks dancing on the top of their exam paper. Hey, hey.
Those lips curve into a deliberate smile when they see a mention of their name as the crazy person who shouts on the top of her lungs and sits on the floor in the classroom and chooses words over wear any day.
Hey, hey, there you are punctuated by the clauses of a thousand deadlines, assignments and work, but still you choose Adam Levine’s voice over everything else as the particles drown in the delight and desperation of you mastering the moves only meant for Moves like Jagger.
I see you proceed there, in front of the mirror, as you make silly faces and basically acknowledge that you’re a dork and oh foolish maiden, you then proceed to hide your red face as the maid catches you scrunching your eyebrows like a madwoman.
A plethora of playthings, you make and take within you every day.
What a wonder, you are.