I have not written of you, you never gave me enough mental torture to. You were the one constant, in my life, putting up with me even when I push you too far. You would stand there, sulking as you wait, until I would act as if nothing happened, though I ask for pardon. But then you say sorry more times than I would, probably cause you like seeing me smile, or type “kiss” on the chat-box from my side, for your side of the screen.
I have not written of you, since we never properly fight. It is always I who throw a tantrum and you who bear it, the nasty wise-cracks and the sarcasm. You would wait till the “flash-anger” disappears, till I smile and say “I miss you”. We end up coining expressions of flash-storms, and my temper, which is certain of being unpredictable than any tempest, with your unwavering pretext of patience.
I will not write of you, not again, because I know you will be around, and that yours will be the first email I read on waking up, or the last email I type before going to sleep. I know there will be a call every day before you head out of office, or a message (or a hundred) in between your day’s work. Whether I be grumpy, silent or pure evil, I know that I will find your side of communication waiting for me, in all politeness, at times formal, and at times highly frustrated.
I will not say often I miss you, almost never I love you, but in my silence you read I care, in my own weirdness, probably never to be spoken or written.
