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© Sujana Naskar


2 Minutes   1.9K    147

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I remember the shadow the books made, window-lit and cascading onto my lap, a city skyline across my thighs. All the lights were off, and I knew the wind outside was growing strong, stronger than the storm within. I am fond of these evenings, all by myself, the dusky silence I call my own with words in mind swirling in hurricane rushing down to the lips which I strived to pause, I warned them not to make noise anymore for I wanted maps instead. Somewhere beyond all these darkness,there is light I know or there is rain.May be? There is life breathing defiantly.

But, it doesn't matter anymore, for all I even care are the curtains of the window, the lace in the curtains, the raindrops in eyelashes; long and bashful, the storm sounds, the fog that keeps returning and the familiar eyes, I love staring into and the million layers of love they hold for me. I have always been attracted to the depth, to the naked soul and I won't ever forget how deep a love I've felt even in those uncertainties, in inexplicable verses like the unnamed isles of maps.

I didn't say much.I didn't need to either. Everything was reduced to single syllables, to breath released into air. I didn't know whom to ask, the winds were severe temptations I resisted, for I know they lose directions at times too. So, I didn't.

All I knew that there were nights ,I wasn't sleeping and kept staring to the sky, the vastness mocking the despair I gathered so long and you were missed, like Jack was missed: to the STARS. This was enough.

I am a storyteller and I ended up painting maps, spending extra ink and caring on the spots we haven't been, staining my fingertips last letters of the sea as I sat quietly and for the first time realised, you meet everyone twice in life, when they come and when they go and the rest remains in maps for us to follow.

Maps Writer Pain Loss

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