Stories Under the Stars

Under the canopy of stars, breathed, a story of butterflies and lies; fireflies and scars!

My story; a story carved by sopped lips of a drunkard or maybe a ballad calligraphed by the shrinking ink!

My mirror; Silently screamed to the shaming criticizing world, "choice and coercion differs, compulsion is a paradox!".

Expectations of sunset?

Cheshire fair skin, red lipstick and black bold eyes!

Under the canopy of silver twinkles, my sky ranted; when my adapting skin to dissimilitudes of mankind, bawled.

Dated 13th August. Golden beams burning my skin melted into cold blue shadow.

" Can I come in?" - a customer's voice.

A sudden halt to the changing hues of my evening sky. He visited me every dusk. His touch was different, fondling! And glance, a lit glim.

More than body, we shared stories. Streetlights and twilights, seashores and metaphors, flowers and showers!

As if, under the same starry sky, within few days the city was wrapped into the constellation of our tale!

I was living. He was a glimpse of the sweet floral smells that my soul always chased for.

"Do you love me?"

- "I don't knw. Love is a cold, heavy baby blue snowball Placed on a glass pane, only subjected to melting and slipping off!"

I drooped dark eyelashes,

My hazel Irish submerged in briny drops, blurred, syllables slurred.

A silent stare, as if demanding to be fathomed.

"And you?"- I asked after a brief pause.

- "Love is sultry for me. It's the warm cumulus air beneath the blanket in a wintry night. It's the lukewarm gale stored in the knittings of your woolen sweater. Meant to stay.It's safe and snug in my mellow arms!" He replied.

 

I still felt separation is the only cosmic conspiracy for a whore rather. We are always an easy poem to memorize yet hardest to Recite.

Yet, A whore was in love. A sentence pretty much to be a piece of mock for folk!

'Twas our sixteenth sunset. He arrived with a yellow orchid.

"Rache, Souls die, stories don't"- said his choking voice. 

"Abrupt, absurd" - I nudged his words with a careless lame smile. 

His last words. 

Under the canopy of the same stars, once again I stopped living. Post the blue evening, he never visited again. He left. 

Withered orchid in my glass pot - his only souvenir.

I stole the fragrance of the wind between us and locked it in a porcelain scent bottle; sniff a little at every lone dusk!

Under the canopy of the same stars, I dozed off, searching for the owner of my yellow orchid!