Everything

Birth of A Phoenix

With the vision of a bleeding perforated heart, she loved him. She loved him unconditionally. She loved him more than the night sky could love the stars, more than the waves could caress the fathom, more than the old widower could rely on his walking stick, more than the new moon night could miss the soothing comfort in the arms of the moonbeam.
He was her world. Her universe. Her own little bubble of Heaven.

He knew her.

The End.

“I drew him in my world;
I draw him all the time,
But I don’t know where to
draw the line.” ( Lang Leav, Lullabies)

His was the portrait that adorned the walls of her deepest instincts. He was the tune that blended with the melody of her soul, resonating to the highest aura of Mysticism. He was the words that were engraved in the letters of Infinity on her existence. She loved him.

He knew her.

The End.

“Sometimes it’s your fragrance that comes to me, out of the blue, on a crowded road in a Sunday afternoon………
 But every morning I wake up is another day, hopeless and miserable, with nothing but a deafening silence, a wave of tears, memories and your absence.” 
(Sanhita Baruah) 

She loved his hazel eyes, his captive smirk, his childish smile, the little brownish spot at the back of his shoulder. She loved the crooked nail on his left toe, the almost insignificant fumbling he does while uttering the word “therefore” ; she loved how he often crooned a nursery rhyme while engrossed in something, she loved how he could not properly do the  flick .
She loved every bit of him. Every little thing he had, every smallest thing he did, never failed her. All droplets of him condensed into a cloud and engulfed her senses. She was perpetually drenched, Forever.
Even with her Love, unrequitted, she was content.

He knew her.

The End

“I’d rather be not the light in your life
The bright day might make me obscure
I’d rather be the cold darkness
For it remains, unseen, uncertain and unsure”
(Sanhita Baruah, The Farewell and Other Poems)

She was a slave of her own daydreaming. A prisoner of her own infatuations. A convict absconding from the reality named Life. The simple truth that her love was one-sided followed her like her own shadow, so she just got used to it, and eventually began to love it. And thus, one winter afternoon, under the pleasant permission of the sunrays, when he did ensure to smile at her, she realised she actually momentarily pined for her shadow of  un-reciprocation.

He smiled at her.

She died at the end of the sentence.

The End

For a man filled with a great, true and unselfish love, even if it be on one side only, there open horizons and possibilities and paths which are closed and unknown to so many clever, ambitious and selfish men.”
(Ivo Andric’, The Bridge on The Drina)

The Birth of a Phoenix awaited, from her ashes. 🙂

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