Midnight Show
When my head hits the pillow at night, I don’t see a blank ceiling, I see us, reliving our memories like an overrun movie on a large screen, like a sky full of gleaming stars, showering light all around me. I see my brown eyes looking into your black ones, saying, “Learnt my language yet?”
I see your slender fingers, entwined with mine, as we walk through streets, libraries, exhibitions, fields and what not; I see your sheepish grin as you sip coffee from the exact point where my lipstick has stained the rim.
I see us at a table, laughing our hearts out, even though we had the worst possible day; I see us fighting over the silliest matters, like why I don’t like eggs, or why you won’t read a book about hot guys.
The scene changes and I see us hugging each other, sometimes smiling, sometimes sad, and sometimes, not letting go; at times I reach out for your hand, longing for the taste of mocha on your lips as we slip into our “adventure” zones.
I see the wind blowing, brushing our hair, and your playful words ring in it. I see the sunlight shift on your face as we enter a trance of endless books on either side, and I’m jumping, giddy, like a baby in a playground, while your lips stretch into the most luminous smile that even authors fail to capture.
We’re in the middle of a conversation, and I’m about to say the words, but then my eyes are drooping and I see you waving “goodbye”; color leaves your face and we fade into the dark.
