I often act like a child,
short attention spans
and big dreams.
I would run around in circles,
run so fast that my lungs will ache for air,
the same way my mouth waters for jalebis.
and I would fall,
partially hurt I would look around with tears in my eyes,
and then wipe them off if no one’s there to wipe them out for me.
attention is a catalyst.
Of breakdowns and tantrums,
half meant wails and crocodile tears.
So when I look at you with that melancholic smile,
Don’t give me attention.
Don’t ask me how do I feel.
Don’t pull me close and console me.
Don’t hold my hand and take me out for an ice cream.
Because you will leave.And your scent will not.
I will remember.
the short attention span has exceptions.
I will remember your voice echoing in my ears,
I will remember how I rested my chin on your shoulders.
my empty palm will feel incomplete,
heart’s is another story.you will be that toy to me.
the one for which I would bargain my toy train for.
That toy train by the way,
I used to call it my life.
I would push away the dish of jalebis
and make sulky faces.
It would feel exactly like someone had sucked the air out of my lungs.
But I won’t stop.
that glass window of that store still has my DNA.
I would press my face against it and stare at you.
and cry.you don’t get it.
I WANT you.but children never say the right things right.
What I mean is,
I NEED you.
and you don’t.so,