The New Old

It was sheer joy when it began and utter despair when it ended. No, ended is not the jargon. Faded is more like it. But what can one do against the entire ‘what ought to be’ component of life? The sweet pain of the lovers and the slow death of the love.
“It ought not to be like this”, he said, in his drunken tone that she was now used to so much. “I Love You too much to let you go. I don’t want to lose you, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.” “You won’t leave me, will you?” “Of course NOT”, she retorted irritated.
It was a routine. Him drunk, her irritated and sleepy on almost every night that they spoke. Then came the farce of being friends in their sobriety, when all he wanted deep down was to play with that lock of hair and all she wanted was be held in his arms.
It’s stupid how things just intermittently stay within you. Like sometimes they just don’t have an outlet. It was unlike the way they were structured. Neither had the courage to take the first step, knowing exactly what was on the other’s mind. The fear, not of rejection but of loss. Loss of the bond, the relationship and the silent nascent love they shared. The loss of its end. And that feeling prohibited them from granting it the tag of permanency.
“I don’t want to hide it from you anymore. It’s been a week now.” “To what?”, she chirped back. “Me and her dating”, he said with that typical boyish grin on his face.
She was happy, for him, for them. At least, me and him would last, she thought. Not for long, she realized when jealousy crept in to fill the void left out in the puzzle of emotions she felt. It fit just right. Stuck to the piece of love she held for him.
She took her cue and left. He was pre occupied to realize and egotist to accept the void that was left within him after her coy exit.
And then again, like the world happens to be in a circle, they just return back to the place they left. It’s incomplete, it’s sour and it still felt good. It was like old times again. His, her gone and her, him out. What’s left is just them, 4 years older but feeling 20 again.
The feelings are despicable and yet incorrigible when they are poured out in a flush of alcohol. But nonetheless its mutual acceptance at the time.
The morning dawns to a new them in the old phase. And within that ambiguity, the communion that occurs cannot be described.
May be the closure to it or a new beginning.

Slime

Its inevitable how messed up you are inside. It’s like slime stuck to your skin. The substance rubs off, but the stickiness still prevails. Like the feeling that just won’t leave you alone. Its might wear off after a while, but when you touch that part of your skin accidentally, intentionally, the sticky slime can still be felt. You’ll do everything to hide the slimy feeling from the world. Not let them see the grim substance stuck to you. It’s just you who knows exactly where it is, how greasy it is and how irksome it is to deal with it.
But that’s the entire point of the slime. The intelligible truth under the intelligible lie.