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I write not much of late. Instead I tell stories. I pick the phone, dial his number and switch to story mode. Does not matter much if he be listening. It’s the feeling of him being there with me that maters for a change. He laughs, says “indeed darling” and I tell him that I love him. It seems much predictable, but tireless at the same time.

Life is less frustrating, though I am on happy pills. “ I don’t like you talking to him when you are on happy pills” he says, over lunch at barefoot. I laugh, think how childish it sounds. Then he says he is serious. I nod, with a mental note made to talk over the matter, while I am on my “happy pills”.

Memories of the past be many. I hold onto them, a little too vividly at times. Writing helps to fill in the gaps of those emotions I felt once towards him. The dilemmas and the frustration of non communicated emotions and feelings. Now looking back seem silly and petty at the same time.

Words somehow do not mean much today. A gesture and silence making sense, much sense than many of the rants that I strived to utter back then.

I like silences. Always did. But I like these silences much better. The silences of my skin brushing against his, as he envelopes me into his warmth. Though all of it sounds too lame, it often makes perfect sense.