Something comes to an end

Like the smile that clings to the corners of Mona Lisa's lips, our afternoons too seem somehow 'ended yet unfinished'—how wrapped in mystery they are—each of our afternoons is its own stark enigma!

At the moment I turn to leave, you curl into yourself like a shy vine... why do you? Have I ever truly been able to touch you? Does placing hand on hand, breathing into the hollow of your throat, count as touching! Who knows! Perhaps because I cannot touch you, you withdraw in wounded pride.

These afternoons, each one a 'something-left-lingering' afternoon, do you spread them out on memory's wooden floor? Or do they tangle in forgetfulness's smoky web? Let them go if they must, but still, wrap me in some small part of you. Too much becomes unbearable sometimes, so even that little would be plenty!

I have watched closely—before our afternoons fade away, something between us fades first. What is it? Do you know? The waiting to begin waiting anew, or the waiting for what still remains scattered of our afternoons to finally run out?

That day when you stood with farewell's bundle in hand, you seemed so weary! What makes you so tired? Will you give me a little of your weariness?