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The Haunting

I am not in love anymore;
I don’t look at the dying leaves and think of all the stories they lived through
I don’t try to put a meaning to each fading smile that walks past me
I don’t find salvation in the knowing that all these rain drops that fall against the bare of my skin- I don’t find solace in knowing that these few drops might also be washing down the lips of my next lover;
I am not in love anymore- I am not in love with ‘love’ anymore;

Some people haunt you in flesh-
You see them live each day; you see them tread the same roads as you; you find them falling for the same painting that caught your eye-
those soft brush strokes spoke to you, they spoke to them, but, did they speak the same tongue?

Tongues that speak of culture
Tongues that birth words
Tongues that spill meanings, one syllable at a time;
do they know how powerful they are?
Have they ever paused to hone the power they hold?
and if they have, how is the world still breathing?

Some stories are hauntingly beautiful as they are;
Others? Well, their beauty haunts you once they are gone;

The first kind are called fairy tales;
all that they are, all that they can be, everything to tell can be told in three small words- “Happily ever after”

The other kind? Well, they are tragedies-
they are what ballads are made of, they force poets to pick up their pens and dance with them for hundreds of Suns;
they are the kinds that don’t make us seek love- rather, they make us ruin ourselves in the name of it;

“Lovers- they don’t shy away from doom”, she said. She loved. She fell. She isn’t in love anymore.

– Gauri Walecha


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