The Place That I Don’t Go To

The Place That I Don’t Go To

There is a place that I don’t go to. A Room rather. A Room of You, with bits of Me and pieces of Us. Yes, a room that I don’t go to. Though somedays I do like to walk down the hallway and keep my hand gently on the knob. No. Usually I don’t turn it. Usually I just stand there waiting for something to pull me away. Away from Gravity itself. But Somedays I don’t want to be pulled away. I am not sure which of these days are the hardest. But I assure you none of them are easy. 

On the days when I find myself walking in, I wonder what will hit me first – the You that I keep locked in or the Me that doesn’t want to leave. Or is it the other way round ?

I wonder what I will find on the walls this time – the questions that I always wanted to ask or the answers I had all along.

I wonder which books I will pick up, which spines I will caress, which covers I will kiss – the ones you read out to me or the ones that I read alone ?

And what of the photoframes on the table? Will my trembling hands be able to hold your face again like they did in that captured moment ? I dare not pick up the frame. For fear of dropping it and feeling your memories rush away through the broken glass. Or maybe because I am simply too afraid of making a sound.
Because I don’t want to disturb the Echoes that are there in this Room. The echoes of our Laughs. They are so in sync that I am unable to separate mine from yours. The echoes are too much too bear.

I would sit down but I can still smell you on the sofa covers.

There I will just make myself comfortable in a corner. Barely outside the light. Away from it, but close enough to hold on to it, when the darkness begins to drown me and entrap me here. In this place that I don’t go to. This place. A Room. A room of you, with bits of me and pieces of us.

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Pooja Jain
The imaginary is the real I fancy more than anything else.

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