Abstract. I was an abstract she wrote with her eyes closed and her breath even when the moon was out and the stars were twinkling. She wrote me like an abstract work of art in her dream. I was the creation of her imagination which was pulled out of her dream in an incident neither happy nor sad. She couldn’t have placed her thoughts clearly on the table if she would have said this but the truth is that she’s been dreaming lately.
She dreamt a dream filled with surprises rare and exotic which made her life seem like a dish made with sophistication and grace by a gourmet from far of lands. Little did she know that her dream would come true and the rare spice of love she dreamt of in her dreams would ultimately come forth her to be savoured for the rest of her life.
She was a muse I always admired from the distance and adored with all my heart. She was the salt in my broth sans which no matter what the exotic elements may, it would’ve tasted bland. She was the gravitational pull for a waterfall sans which there would have been no beauty in envisioning a cascade. She was the flesh to the skeleton of desires and dreams, keeping them alive.
Our past, present and future, our chemistry together and our fate.
Nothing but five blank sheets of paper for us to create.