Letters

The Bouquet

10:13 p.m.

Dearest,

The roses reached you thirty-seven minutes earlier than they should have, and we both were caught off-guard. Until you asked me the question, I saved my sanity from wandering, wondering why I sent them to you.

On some days, life happened to me in such a jiffy that my mind and heart ran parallel and never made it to each other. Seeing you up-close, wrapped in the walls of your room, dipped in the golden light, wine pouring down me like a traveller lost in the desert, I felt a rush in me to wrap you away and know your mind. I would rather not be wise enough to name the chemicals in my head and soul when the cigarettes changed lips. I would go back to that night, sometime later, and think of how few hours could change the air between two bodies, so much as to forget the beginning lines.

We meet, we perceive, we love, we forget. There’s one thread connecting all of this, remembrance. That is my gift to us, the gift of memory. Memories rust when left naked, so I wrapped them in petals so red, that the blood questions its worth. There is freedom in living, as you want to; the freedom to time, company and privacy, and it has been a privilege to enjoy the freedom while burning our lungs, together, keeping ourselves warm under the same rug.

Questions leave you with the empty satisfaction of being answered. I refuse to answer your curiosity, hoping our questions never end, hoping we will always have things to ask, if not answer. I refuse to pester myself on the burning edge of tobacco to understand why my heart compelled to let you know your worth to me. I saw the warmth of the glow on the curve of your lips, with scared questions changing sides in your eyes.

It was enough answered, enough answers. There might not be another impulse so strong so as to run away from my home to your cave, to read you behind the screen. But none of those absences will be strong enough to rage a war against what we already made out of ourselves, of the beauty of nonchalance. Nor will I force my heart to remember, neither will I, to forget. We will remember each other in the shadows of the night till we overstay our memories.

Why is not my cup of tea. I would reason my regrets when I do not give in to my impulses, and tonight is not the night of regrets. Keep with you the bouquet till it dies a slow death. Our death is inevitable, no vase can save us, nor the flowers. To a night that was mystery and alluring, to a night that will come back, clothed differently, someday, maybe.

Till then, know what I want to say most to you.
আটকে নয়, আগলে রাখবো।

লুকিয়ে বা ফুলে মুড়িয়ে।
 
ইতি,
রাতের ছায়া।

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