>before you proceed, please note,that this is a random story that I just felt like composing,might contain reflections of my life,but otherwise,not worth reading<
The song is playing like a brooke out of water... has no tone for the shuttered faces to hear,yet it plays the sweetest melody....my eyes close shut as we dance along...tune to tune...swinging rhythmically, the slowness of a misty winter morning in our touches ,the fire of a 10 o'clock Sun in our hearts, entrapping the essences of life, the infinity in our embraces...the scent of the rain-drenched evenings on the scorched diase in the demolished ol' fifties cafe...yet the colors would be etched across the undersurface of our eye-lids.
We were old then, we thought we would never get back the lights on, the cafe was torn down,and the dj was a crazy old man chasing the dogs down the streets.
We were old then, our hair were white, we had thought we would never meet again. We had the mere photos ourselves in our hands to seek solace from the son and daughter-in -laws disgusted maneuvering around our bed-pans every morning and day.
We were old then. We had no inkling of what we looked like, I had given up looking at mirror since the last he whispered between kisses, I was beautiful.
We were old then, the broken teeth of the crunchie hair-band he had slipped into my hair the first time he proposed saying that he had preserved it since the day I had left it at his home, the first time I had been there with my girlfriend, ...it lay between my tears at night the warmth of bedsheet, right under the pillow, the strings come loose every day,now consisted of a handful few ones, red,yellow,and a brown one,---brown,the color of his eyes, the way they used to look into mine, like breaking the water-surface and taking a long-yearned for breathe or,like being breathless yet alive underwater itself.We were old,then. The world had parted us, my white clothes held more color than my lips.His son yet had no clue who he was. The bastard ,father had married me off to disclose the birth of our son,our gift from heavens. The way he had cuddled him ,held his minuscle fingers between his fingertips,like tipping delicate cashmere silk , and had brought tears to my eyes, ....taking me back to the day we made love for the first time...his every touch,his every breathe on my neck, his clumsy but passionate caressing..of my being,my soul,my heart...I never believe we would have to leave. I never did, forgive me.
But we arent old anymore.
We were old,not anymore.
Where the olds become young, where time travels back,where memories happen for the first time in future...thats where we had flown to, we had flown to where we could be together...where the brooke could sing without water and the sun could be up at night,and moon hung from our trees....thats where.....