I don’t remember the day we met. I don’t remember much of what happened when we kissed for the very first time, except that it was quite cold and that your hand on my arm was warm as a bear, instantly raising goose pimples. I don’t recall when I stopped hurrying to put on some makeup when you came over. I don’t remember when we said “I love you” the first time. I don’t remember how long we have been together either. It sure does feel like a weary lifetime, though. We have already been through quite a bit together, haven’t we.
We have been a graph with a relatively straight line. And that annoys the fuck out of me sometimes. Where are the fireworks? Where is the ebb and the flow of the tide that is supposed to leave me breathless trying to keep up? How are there no sparkles in the air when our eyes meet across the room? Where did all the swooning and the goose flesh and the drama go? The grand fairytale, the passionate fights, the pouting, and the kisses and makeups?
Sheesh. Talk about romance having flown fast out the window.
But you know what? I think I’ll live. I’ll live for the warmth of your jacket and for the quiet rides back home at the end of real-life days. I’ll live to revel in the shared knowledge that our favorite standup comedian is not that funny anymore but we still chortle at his decreasingly funny quips together out of loyalty. I’ll live for the comfort of my pillow that smells of you. I’ll live for the look on your face when you solved/ sorted something out that I couldn’t. I’ll live for when you acknowledge my thank yous with a gruff hai na.
I’ll live for the feeling of owing you everything but owing you nothing at all.
So. Screw treacherous romance. Fuck the sweet nothings. We are terrible at being sappy together anyway. I’d rather take smoldering embers that can last a lifetime than try to fan a raging fire that Time can douse out in a mo.
