He was insane, for he clearly knew what he wanted. Yearned for it till his last breath, like there was no way out. He was insane, yes.

THE PROMISES

The book had not been parted with, in the last 50 years. She had left the book. He never lost it. He couldn't care less, all knew. His house had some say in it. He wondered though where his house was. He would flinch at every single ray peeping inside the room. The one room. The only room. He asked for a calendar. What day was it? And every single day would pass.

He never slept. His eyes would be wide open amidst all the blackening. Eating was no intention. They made him eat anyway. He kept quiet. For the day. For the night. For the life. He had no remembrance, they said. But again, what day was it? There was no calendar. And yet the day would pass.

He looked for the photograph. No pockets. He felt it under the only sock he wore. He barely walked. He didn't want to lose her picture tugged in. The book hadn't left. He longed for the day. For the meet. For the exchange of promises. He couldn't tell. Was it the day? Still no calendar.

He puked. Puked some more. He made it to the glucose. He re-read the book. He had lost the count. He hummed it. Traces of an old habit. Would she like it after all these years? He raced for oxygen. His wasn't the battle for nothing. He had to make it to the day. There was no calendar. He didn't look for it. The day was yet to pass.

He could feel the chilly air brushing against his pale skin, the blood oozing out, his grip tight over the book. He didn't listen to his lungs. His chest could do away with that burning. He was a kid running after his ice cream.

His ice cream lay there. She was white, just dusty. She was cold, just not ready to melt. He flipped open the book. The ring was never still in his bare hands.

It was a book, that bore more than just her name. The entirety of each line filled his very soul with her love, for all that she wrote, she wrote for him. It was a gesture he loved enough to hold on to. He hummed it. His old thing, her favourite. Her smile, his favourite.

The ring was never still in his bare hands. He gave it to her, on one trembling knee. He had promised.

"I want you to promise me to never lose that book."  "I promise." "I want you to promise me to sing me my favourite one in my sleep." "I promise." "And I want you to promise me another at least 50 years." "I promise." "With each time you bending on one knee with the same ring?" "Would you just promise me a 'yes' now?" "I promise."  "I promise."

It was a cold night. The picture fluttered under his left sock. There she was, watching him intently like she did, he thought. He took a glance. "Ain't you just beautiful?" And there he could sense, the same golden hues of her warm smile, her giggles echoing under the half moon. Was it his heart? It had started pacing.

He still knew not where his house was. He did not grimace. He had found his home. He had found his bed. His eye lids were slowly closing the gap. He didn't bother. All these years of unrest, he knew he could finally sleep.

He couldn't love her less. She had, after all, kept her promise too. They couldn't tell if he had died on their anniversary. After all, they didn't marry. They couldn't. All you could know back then was that the road had survived a crashed car, and a red bridal veil. All you could know today was that the asylum had a broken window, wasted tubes, and a wanted face.

His body was cleared the next day. Even though he couldn't make it next to her grave, the book had made it to his.

The promises were exchanged.

FEATHER

She had fallen in love with the feather that she had notched up while out in the sun. Suddenly she knew, what exactly called her out. Riding on the wind, floating over heights, cascading her touch to the extremities of the world. Losing a part of her at each instant, to make it easy to name those memories. Travel, but travel slow, to make peace with everything the life had to give her.

Only the air, no ground
A white serenity all around
Into this, her eyes would bore
She knew she wanted no more
A pinch of color would be good
But taint the snow, what could?
Sun on the front, wind on the rear
If anything could be even near
Almost there, she'd rise and roar
For she knew she wanted no more

A feather was enough, a feather would be all

A dream no big, the life no small

And to live it, to live it only

She be here, she be there

To be, and to free, where else she'd go?

Just everywhere.

Counting On You

It is easy to ask friends to count on you. And friends do count on each other unless they are not friends. That was simple. Anyway, what amazes me is that friends are supposed to do anything that you can't do at the very moment. Anything, like a superhuman. And when they fail, it becomes hard to believe that they couldn't make it out only because they acted a little human. You feel bad for the one you counted on. And even bad for the one you didn't think of. The 'what-ifs' never seem to leave your side. It only gets worse when the picture turns out to be far more acute than you figured, and your friend you counted on turns out to be far more heedless than ever. It is so easy to wipe it off when you can't make out something you were being counted on. It is so easy to shake off the regret of letting down your friend who counted on you. It is so easy to make-believe someone, especially if that 'someone' is your friend. But what will not be easy is counting on you again, dear friend.
Then there's another side to it, where we try to look past all the blemishes. We rely more on the good than the bad. And that's when we stamp it down if that friend is above the one-twos of laxity. And honestly, who has got the perfect shoulder to lean on? Or the perfect arms to be surrounded with? Or the perfect soul to die for? The only perfect thing to care for is the intention, which can deal with any darn imperfection in this world. The rest of the thing is just complimentary, ain't it? What do we gonna do then? We gonna brake those hover boards of all the 'what-ifs', and let the situation sink in. Deeper than the epic Titanic, yes. So that even the remains of it wouldn't make any sense. And we could just start all over again. Start counting on again. And come on, who cuts off a leg just because you fell down on the annual ballet eve?

Drained. Coffee? You better suit up, because I am sure as hell counting on you, dear friend.

LOSS

Some losses are big, some small. They may leave you unaffected, too. But when they leave you scars to look for, only then you realise how good the bare skin felt. Those burns need no ice. You don't want to feed them a thing. Because all the sick, forgotten memories do not seem to be tainted to you then. And the regrets, that come along, are pressing to you. They give you your loss's last words. And suddenly you want to do nothing but hear them. Hear them all. No, you're not looking for some solution on the slate. You aren't looking for a shoulder either. All you want then is a word that would tell you if souls do talk. The thing about connection is that it may be weak, may be strong, may be distorted, but it's there. It is always there. Even if you aren't holding onto it, it's all there. And when you finally lose the connection, someday, you still can't tell if it has all gone away. No, you don't ask for much then. You know not how to fix it all. You just yearn for a final goodbye. That's all that can help you sit and relax beneath that stiff shell. Mourning is not good enough. Your loss hasn't shifted a bit. But you mourn. Inside-outside-all the time. You don't want to show. You want to let go. Mourning helps then. But mourning is not good enough. You still mourn. It is all so annoying. But nothing seems annoying anymore. Your loss may even be mocking at you. But you're there. You don't want to leave. You want to take all that you can in those last beeps. Machines are not a thing to rely on. Life is never a thing to rely on. The thing about living and dead is that we care way too much for the dead. If only we cared for the living, too.