I have been a procrastinator lately. But that’s not how I used to be. Maybe a little portion of me is. Now.
The place, the feeling and oh boy! that touch; the terrible time difference; you and me. Not you and me. We are still stuck in that trice, where we come back to each other, and these verses. To the bubble we call home.
This is home. Where you make me spill love into alphabets, that twirl themselves into meaningful sentences, and enable me to fly in the fuchsia sky. Where nobody is caged, and we return to love. Each single day. Over and over.
But why fuchsia? That is not your favourite color. Neither mine. But it’s the perfect shade for our trance. It is a little less than perfect, yet happy. Maybe the definition is altered, but that’s what we’ve got. Maybe this will be our happy.
Until now. But it’s time.
It’s a perfect afternoon to rekindle what is lost. To fall in love all over; to make you go crazy with letters again; to knit more stories for you and me. And fill this space with quirks and whims and wanderings. And more of each.
It’s time to restore the faith. Again.
To firsts. And many more.