Petals for my pages

My love for romantic novels arose after I met you for the first time in the library,

Your brownish locks with a tinge of red in them blended perfectly with your honey-colored eyes.

Being a hopeless romantic for the past twenty years I had never unveiled much interest in romantic novels,

But sitting by the rain smothered window in the bakery, savoring a cup of hot chocolate while you playfully entwined by ring finger with yours over the smell of freshly plucked roses, this moment made Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre” hit very different. At least better than the times when I read it alone, I had a habit of skipping and avoiding the paragraphs with confessions of love;

Maybe because I was scared to witness the bond break in the latter half of the novel.

But you insisted I read them too, making me emphasize the phrases bound with affection, to extricate my fear of unrequited love.

You despised my praxis of folding the corners of the slightly tinted pages neither did you encourage using bookmarks,

Instead, you used to get me petals of Bougainville from the bush you implanted as a memorial for your grandmother, to put in between the pages…

You said I had blue eyes just like hers and my dimples reminded you of her graceful smile.

I would never forget that alluring smile of yours when you spoke about your grandmother and how much she cherished her little garden

Even after you got enlisted for the war, I never forgot your flowers,

Roaming nearing the balcony I used to wait for the postman to deliver the letters, turning now and then to the radio and praying that the war would end soon.

I never visited the bakery, because the only reason to visit was gone.

When the sky lit up in a pinkish purple hue on the eve of sunset, I would look up at the sky trying to hold back my tears which blurred my vision.

Even at the funeral when everyone carried white chrysanthemums and lilies I chose to give you pink bougainvilleas from the bush which I implanted while waiting for your return.

I still read romance novels but the essence does not remain the same, even though you are gone the petals of your blossom are still stuck in between the pages of my heart.