People have been advising me to stop writing to you. The reason that they present for this befuddles me. They say that you should make the woman wait for you, that you should make the woman miss you. They say that women are drawn towards men who make them wait, and that they outright reject the ones 'who wag their tails behind them.' Well, that was the phrase used, in Hindi of course, by the last person who gave me the advice.
I laugh at those people. Some of these advices have come from women themselves. Which means that they know that this happens, they know that it hurts the other person, and yet they are willing to do nothing about it. They say these things with a sense of vindication and pride on their faces, as if to tell men that the more you're into me, the more you're going to get ignored.
Unless, of course, I'm in love with you. Then, it is a different ball game. But not so different, isn't it? After all, this is what he did to you. He made you wait. He made you wait for months, gave you excruciating pain, and yet, here you are, writing your Instagram bio in his template and using his locations in your stories. If you tell me that 'Berlin' came up out of the blue when you sat down to write that, I won't believe you.
Now, before you go bonkers again, and as I've already grown tired of telling you, this is not written to belittle you. Rather, I'm writing this to appreciate your courage and bravery. Also, in the same breath, let me tell you that as much as I hate him from the core of my heart, I can't judge him. You say he never said a word that hurt you. That already makes him the better man, after all the spears that I've thrown your way, however painful that might have been for me, as I had to rip open my heart every time that I hurled them at you.
You had told me about the time he arranged a bandage when you experienced a muscle sprain in your leg, tied it around your feet and made sure that you're comfortable. I saw the look in your eyes when you'd told me that. Your eyes spoke of how much you wanted it to happen again. They spoke of how ready you were to hurt yourself only so that he could touch you.
Like the way he would have touched you that night. You told me about how you two talked about the world and its stories after it was done, but you didn't tell me about how he travelled your world and drew stories on your bare body using his bare hands and bludgeoning lips. You didn't tell me how you shared the moles on your tongue, the ones you had hidden from the world, with his, and how you got the life-altering serum in his saliva.
You must tell me about the way he held your breasts and switched them between his hands and his mouth. For I've been there too. I've heard your moans in their most subtle form. You must tell me how you cried, almost helplessly, when he slithered under your sheets, buried his face in your neckline and crushed your breasts with his. It destroys me to the core to think of that night. It destroys me even more to think that maybe our night was a recollection of the past, or worse, a dress rehearsal for the future.
But you know what? I'm okay with it. I'm okay with having the second-hand experiences of your famished youth. As long as I can be of any help, of some comfort, I'll be ready to play second fiddle. It hurts to see how a few beautiful months spent with a relatively strange man can overpower the years of warmth that we had, and make him the centre of your life, or to put it bluntly, your bae.
But that's what love is, isn't it? It blindfolds you first, and then, depending on how flabbergasted your heart is, it either gives you a mirage or a miracle.
I'm happy to be your mirage, if that is what it takes for you to reach your miracle. I'm happy to be the guy who couldn't make you feel anything, if that makes you love him with all the heart you have left. Or maybe, love me back with some of it.
You are living him, and I'm living you.
Photo courtesy: Berlin Artparasites
I laugh at those people. Some of these advices have come from women themselves. Which means that they know that this happens, they know that it hurts the other person, and yet they are willing to do nothing about it. They say these things with a sense of vindication and pride on their faces, as if to tell men that the more you're into me, the more you're going to get ignored.
Unless, of course, I'm in love with you. Then, it is a different ball game. But not so different, isn't it? After all, this is what he did to you. He made you wait. He made you wait for months, gave you excruciating pain, and yet, here you are, writing your Instagram bio in his template and using his locations in your stories. If you tell me that 'Berlin' came up out of the blue when you sat down to write that, I won't believe you.
Now, before you go bonkers again, and as I've already grown tired of telling you, this is not written to belittle you. Rather, I'm writing this to appreciate your courage and bravery. Also, in the same breath, let me tell you that as much as I hate him from the core of my heart, I can't judge him. You say he never said a word that hurt you. That already makes him the better man, after all the spears that I've thrown your way, however painful that might have been for me, as I had to rip open my heart every time that I hurled them at you.
You had told me about the time he arranged a bandage when you experienced a muscle sprain in your leg, tied it around your feet and made sure that you're comfortable. I saw the look in your eyes when you'd told me that. Your eyes spoke of how much you wanted it to happen again. They spoke of how ready you were to hurt yourself only so that he could touch you.
Like the way he would have touched you that night. You told me about how you two talked about the world and its stories after it was done, but you didn't tell me about how he travelled your world and drew stories on your bare body using his bare hands and bludgeoning lips. You didn't tell me how you shared the moles on your tongue, the ones you had hidden from the world, with his, and how you got the life-altering serum in his saliva.
You must tell me about the way he held your breasts and switched them between his hands and his mouth. For I've been there too. I've heard your moans in their most subtle form. You must tell me how you cried, almost helplessly, when he slithered under your sheets, buried his face in your neckline and crushed your breasts with his. It destroys me to the core to think of that night. It destroys me even more to think that maybe our night was a recollection of the past, or worse, a dress rehearsal for the future.
But you know what? I'm okay with it. I'm okay with having the second-hand experiences of your famished youth. As long as I can be of any help, of some comfort, I'll be ready to play second fiddle. It hurts to see how a few beautiful months spent with a relatively strange man can overpower the years of warmth that we had, and make him the centre of your life, or to put it bluntly, your bae.
But that's what love is, isn't it? It blindfolds you first, and then, depending on how flabbergasted your heart is, it either gives you a mirage or a miracle.
I'm happy to be your mirage, if that is what it takes for you to reach your miracle. I'm happy to be the guy who couldn't make you feel anything, if that makes you love him with all the heart you have left. Or maybe, love me back with some of it.
You are living him, and I'm living you.
Photo courtesy: Berlin Artparasites
