It has nothing to do with him but it has everything to do with him:
She left on a sour note.
So sour, it was hard to swallow.
She couldn’t bare the after-taste.
She couldn’t even say goodbye.
At least she doesn’t think she ever got the chance.
She’s afraid to ask if they did and if so, what did she say? What did he say?
Was it an empty kiss or a tragic repression?
The thing is, there was no expectation that any of it was real;
They were flying high, cruising past the facts, languishing in reality.
He was using her and she was rightfully using him.
A muse, she lie confused, drier than the Kerala in the summertime.
“Go down, go down.” He went down.
Was it ever enough?
Yet she was the one who provoked fait and knew what exactly what she was getting herself into.
She gave up her dignity but within this forfeit she found what she ultimately wanted.
This victory convinced her in the beginning and promised her pleasure beyond his lips. An orgasm between her ears.
What he gave her was enough to compromise any doubts of false intimacy.
She carried on day after day, night after night, giving not her heart but her body.
But something happened.
She forgot how she had gotten there.
Her mind reached its climax and stayed there as it started to unravel.
She was losing sanity.
She couldn’t clearly understand what or who she was.
All she knew was him.
She was falling.
She assumed she fell in love.
At this point, it had everything to do with him.
He didn’t just take her in, he helped her out (of her mind that is).
He was there with her until the end.
He cared for her— probably out of fear…
But maybe not only out of fear;
Maybe he did love her beyond the confines of the bedroom?
Maybe he liked more than just the outline of her body as she lay breathless over his blue embroidered sheets.
Or more than just the way her hands trailed down his chest as they made their way up to the 7th floor in the elevator.
Maybe he liked the way she burnt her tea or rolled a beedi.
Maybe he liked the way she stared at the sky or dried her hair.
Maybe he kept her letters, her drawings, the books she left behind and the candles she had bought (that she lit only to accidentally destroy his coffee table).
Maybe it did all have to do with him.
But it didn’t, did it?
She didn’t love him in that way.
She never could and she knew that from the start.
The truth is, it all had nothing to do with him.
That sour note wasn’t left by him, it was left by the ecstasy that fucked with her head.
The seduction of that bitter taste lingered long after their last embrace.
She knew what she was getting into but she didn’t realize how far she could fall.
This time not in love, but out of reality.
If only thinking were enough...
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