From each letter of your unsaid words trickles a sense of disillusionment, as if each letter, if it could fly and reach me over a millisecond, it would sit on my phone screen and peep into my eyes to check if I am really not deceiving you. {But I am not.} And the other day your letter asked, in a way of complaining, 'you don't text anymore',
I just said, 'I don't.
Because
I
Write
To
You
In
Different
Way.'
Red-green-yellow. Lights. Lights off. Silence. The night and owl stories. Lust. Loneliness. He called up. Late in the night and remained silent until he could sleep. She listened to his silence and the monster who wanted to drink blood, not rain. He was not in love. He was honest enough to tell her. She was happy to read him, blindly. The script was being written. She read many... many more.... At times, she prayed to be saved. At times, she got tangled. Then he held her hand, showed her love... She searched for keys. Hastily. Gasping. Pressing. Backspace. DEL. Esc.
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