She.

Standard

She

is like the winter sun at 14:00

scorching

if you’re still

futile

when you’re pacing.

She

is like an early morning smoke

polluting my insides

in places

I’d never been touched.

She

is like the abstract painting

hung in a lonely corner

of a flooded museum

unfathomable

until

lost.

She

is like the old photographs

you took at the highest hill

on that lonely night away from home

she gushes you with

memories

you wished you’d

left behind.

She

is like the diaphragm

of a rainbow

so distinguished

that she is

obscure.

For she

who is sorrow

is everywhere

and

wanted

nowhere.

Unsolved.

Standard

6 different partners , 1 significant life event and over 720 days of undefined friendship, unprecedented arguments and a range of mutual emotions from indifference to infatuation later, here I was , sitting on my bed at 3 am with way more than the appropriate amount of caffeine in my system , mentally stuck in the lounge room 50 metres and atleast 20 sweaty teenagers apart from him.
If you looked at him in a room full of people, his tall structure and brimmingly above average face aside, there was nothing remarkable about him. He’s the guy sitting on the metro floor reading a book you’ve probably heard of with an appropriately disheveled mane . He’s the guy you look up from your phone to see but don’t glance back at again. He’s the awkwardly likeable friend with a rather accustomed sense of humour. He’s as normal as normal gets.

I could say his presence in my life made him extraordinary for me, but then I’d hesitantly erase out the ‘extra’.
He is there for me and he isn’t.
He knows me a little more than I’d like to be known about, and he also didn’t know me at all.
I’d think about him if he hadn’t talked in a while, and I’d also let it go even after months had passed.
He is the pandora to my existence.
He is the kind of puzzle I like with a few pieces missing.

The raging oestrogen in me often replaced the faceless man pining me down on the bed to roughly kiss me to peak the edges of my desire with him, only for me to push those away.
I’d repeatedly convinced myself I was in love with him because not labelling it was too confusing , but I knew love wasn’t the right word for it.
I didn’t want to figure him out, yet I yearned for him to understand me.
I didn’t want to label what we had, yet I craved for him to force me to do so.

What we had- if we had something- was absurd and indescribable but elementary and insipid and the same time.

For he lit me like the streets on Diwali, I hope I was atleast a faintly flickering flame for him.
He was to me like the 0.1% gasses are to the air we breath, not significant enough to distinguish but simultaneously incumbent .

And to put a million raging thoughts to rest, I think he still is the only mystery I prefer unsolved.