नींद आ रही है एक

That sick feeling – nerves charging like hot dye through my veins, that manifest themselves as an emotional montage across my face – a rapid progression, illuminated: confusion, excitement, fear, sorrow.

I caught a glimpse of you. I turned my head and let the mélange play out; my cheeks grew warm like tight, fresh bread rolls from the oven. My eyes watered. I gulped and it stung. I gulped again.

Outside, icicles dangle like death-defying friends, clinging to awnings, their grips slipping. Could fall any moment, but for now they’re just laughing at the hazard of it all.

I wish you were here.

Goddamn, I wish you were.

I would pluck one word from each of the world’s 6,500 languages – the word that best describes you – Gigil, Toska, Litcost – and I would declare you as such for the next 6,500 days. One word for each day. One new word per morning that we wake up to watch the dangling icicles outside our windows, laughing at us as they barely hold on. One new word per morning we witness the sunrise bursting forth like some fat, drunk man exiting a bathroom stall – clumsy, shiny, rotund. One new word per morning that we arise to find a still-dark sky full of blinking stars.

Come back, नींद आ रही है एक, come back.

Artwork by Seurat

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