The cheeky sun rays filtered into the room, breaking the comfortable darkness that had settled in somewhere between a moonless night. Her eyebrows furrowed into a 'v' right in the center, the brightness shattering her dreamy sleep. Brown dusky eyes opened to look right into mine.
"You are always looking at me sleeping. You are such a creep", she said.
"I can't help myself."
Her wheaty skin broke into a smile I wish I could capture in a bottle. The dark circles that hung on her brown orbs faded away behind that stretch of happiness. God, she was so beautiful. She was magnificent really. Someone said miracles don't exist. Someone had clearly never seen my wife.
She had this black birth mark right under the right side of her jaw which truly drove me insane. Her wild chocolate hair fanned on the satin white pillow she said she loved. It was straight with a hint of small waves. "Too straight and flat" she would say. "Too silky and distracting" I would retort. Somewhere in her teen years she had a wild child phase where she went on a limb and got them dyed blue all the way. After 5 years the tiny specks and wisps were still visible. It made her, her. I loved those bits.
An array of red and fading purple spots broke out on her face. She would always cake up on those make up things she said would make these marks disappear. But she would never understand they were her battle scars. The sting of the stress and pain she saw at an age no person should.
"How can you kiss me while they lie on my cheek?" she would ask.
I always replied with another kiss.
Her face had aged, the demons of her filthy past harassing her on nights that she should have been in Wonderland. Her eyes often reminding me of the broken girl with broken hopes I had met a long time ago. She said she was a happy soul. She was. She spread smiles on tired and defeated faces and joy on damaged hearts whenever she could. Her face would light up like the city at night, radiant and glowing when she saw what she was capable of.
She turned towards me, going back to a deep lumber that I prayed was devoid of terrors she shouldn't relive. Her short neck was filled with beauty marks, marks she said were "ugly" but she would never understand how I fell in love with a her a little more every time I saw each one. The soft swell of her breasts lead to a small bumpy tummy. Sometimes she would look at herself in the mirror, holding her "pudgy tummy" as she called it and looking at herself like she was dirt. She would trace the thin stretch marks that whispered of one too many ghosts that still haunted her. When she would look back into her eyes, they would be empty. Empty of life and empty of her. I loved her tummy. It was a soft small part of her that I could cherish and pamper. She was very ticklish at the sides anyway.
Her thighs touched and it was all too evident on the number of jeans she threw which were chaffed at their centers. She said she loved herself but I know that sometimes when she locked herself inside the bathroom she wished for something that a twisted society with twisted minds had standardised. She had beautiful thighs, their fairness so rich and their texture so smooth.
I wish she knew how gorgeous she was. When I had failed to express in words I had hoped she saw it in my eyes. I swear when she walked out in that black dress I was the happiest man on this planet. If my eyes could have fallen out of their sockets they probably would have,
She starfish-ed all over the bed. Her one leg overlapping mine and the other one missing my face barely. Her chest rose with the rhythm of her heart, a small pool of drool already wetting the new sheets and her nose adorably crinkling at random moments. I remembered the girl I had met, this beautiful girl who looked like a swan in search of her lost sparkle. She thinks I fixed her but she never figured how she mend my wounds. Her liquid love filled into the holes of my soul that were unfixable. She fixed me, made a man of a lost boy with more baggage than most people could handle. In the world where both of us had lost too much, we found each other.
She never understood how the small things that she did affected me so much. When she smiled while waving me a good day or when she simply laughed at all.
She thought she was amazing at deceiving the world into believing that the girl they look at is the one who is swimming in happiness. But I knew better than that. I would see the rapid flutter of her eyelashes when the lonely girl resurfaced, the anxiety building up and eating away at her shattered soul piece by piece. Sometimes she looked into nothingness like she was lost in a dark place she wanted to come back from. Sometimes she would cling onto me tighter because she was battling with evils of a destroyed childhood. Sometimes she would just touch her stomach and argue in her mind to keep her tears at bay. Sometimes she would break in front of me a little more.
Her eyes opened, a happy energy dancing in her brown orbs.
"They are so normal! They are nothing special! You just compliment my eyes because you are my husband." That's how our first fight had started.
She finally woke up after some time. Her face glowing and excited for another day of spreading love and smiles.
"I love you, husband of mine." She said.
"You are so beautiful, wife of mine." A shy blush creeped onto her face.
I stand now in the same room with the absence of her presence to accompany me. I see the place she laid her beautiful body now. How her entity had now exploded into her scent and her promises and more memories than I can handle. I look at her mirror, half-wishing on empty hopes that she would magically reappear beside me like she always used to. I touch her pillow, remembering her silky hair running between the gaps of my fingers like liquid cotton.
"Do it more." she would have said. "It feels very nice."
We spent an abnormal amount of nights building a future on "what ifs" and "maybes". But nobody had told me that these "what ifs" and "maybes" would not bring my wife back. That someday I would yearn to see her eyelashes whip her eyes when she woke up or hear her slight growl of frustration when her nail polish spilled out.
Those dreams now dissolve into a million unfulfilled promises. Into a million unsaid words.
The room felt too dull suddenly without her sparkle. Like it had been sucked of life. Just how I was now. The gashes in my damaged soul split open without her presence, my tears breaking into an ugly waterfall she would have hated if she saw. It was suffocating to live in the room that smelled and tasted like hers but didn't have her. I was falling apart at the seams, the realisation that she was never going to walk through this door to hug me, hitting like a sack of bricks. I cried for the loss of the light of my life, for the awareness that had settled in that she was now under a gray rock some few miles away from me, for the empty voids in my ugly past that uncurled onto the silent night and lay bare for only my eyes, for the lifeline I had lost and for the happiness that had drowned. I cried for myself, that my last words to her were just calling her beautiful. A word so cheap, so unjust to how she really was.
So I lay in the spot beside hers, breathing in her scent and feeling her warmth seep into my black suit. I lay imagining my gorgeous,gorgeous wife sleeping beside me with her hand on the place above my heart. I lay reminiscing in the beauty of her curves and her smile and the strength the broken girl I knew had, to fix herself. To fix me. I lay remembering her pink lips quivering every time she cried.
And I lay in dying hopes and dry wishes that when I wake up this time, I see her tiny brown spheres staring into mine.
"You are always looking at me sleeping. You are such a creep", she said.
"I can't help myself."
Her wheaty skin broke into a smile I wish I could capture in a bottle. The dark circles that hung on her brown orbs faded away behind that stretch of happiness. God, she was so beautiful. She was magnificent really. Someone said miracles don't exist. Someone had clearly never seen my wife.
She had this black birth mark right under the right side of her jaw which truly drove me insane. Her wild chocolate hair fanned on the satin white pillow she said she loved. It was straight with a hint of small waves. "Too straight and flat" she would say. "Too silky and distracting" I would retort. Somewhere in her teen years she had a wild child phase where she went on a limb and got them dyed blue all the way. After 5 years the tiny specks and wisps were still visible. It made her, her. I loved those bits.
An array of red and fading purple spots broke out on her face. She would always cake up on those make up things she said would make these marks disappear. But she would never understand they were her battle scars. The sting of the stress and pain she saw at an age no person should.
"How can you kiss me while they lie on my cheek?" she would ask.
I always replied with another kiss.
Her face had aged, the demons of her filthy past harassing her on nights that she should have been in Wonderland. Her eyes often reminding me of the broken girl with broken hopes I had met a long time ago. She said she was a happy soul. She was. She spread smiles on tired and defeated faces and joy on damaged hearts whenever she could. Her face would light up like the city at night, radiant and glowing when she saw what she was capable of.
She turned towards me, going back to a deep lumber that I prayed was devoid of terrors she shouldn't relive. Her short neck was filled with beauty marks, marks she said were "ugly" but she would never understand how I fell in love with a her a little more every time I saw each one. The soft swell of her breasts lead to a small bumpy tummy. Sometimes she would look at herself in the mirror, holding her "pudgy tummy" as she called it and looking at herself like she was dirt. She would trace the thin stretch marks that whispered of one too many ghosts that still haunted her. When she would look back into her eyes, they would be empty. Empty of life and empty of her. I loved her tummy. It was a soft small part of her that I could cherish and pamper. She was very ticklish at the sides anyway.
Her thighs touched and it was all too evident on the number of jeans she threw which were chaffed at their centers. She said she loved herself but I know that sometimes when she locked herself inside the bathroom she wished for something that a twisted society with twisted minds had standardised. She had beautiful thighs, their fairness so rich and their texture so smooth.
I wish she knew how gorgeous she was. When I had failed to express in words I had hoped she saw it in my eyes. I swear when she walked out in that black dress I was the happiest man on this planet. If my eyes could have fallen out of their sockets they probably would have,
She starfish-ed all over the bed. Her one leg overlapping mine and the other one missing my face barely. Her chest rose with the rhythm of her heart, a small pool of drool already wetting the new sheets and her nose adorably crinkling at random moments. I remembered the girl I had met, this beautiful girl who looked like a swan in search of her lost sparkle. She thinks I fixed her but she never figured how she mend my wounds. Her liquid love filled into the holes of my soul that were unfixable. She fixed me, made a man of a lost boy with more baggage than most people could handle. In the world where both of us had lost too much, we found each other.
She never understood how the small things that she did affected me so much. When she smiled while waving me a good day or when she simply laughed at all.
She thought she was amazing at deceiving the world into believing that the girl they look at is the one who is swimming in happiness. But I knew better than that. I would see the rapid flutter of her eyelashes when the lonely girl resurfaced, the anxiety building up and eating away at her shattered soul piece by piece. Sometimes she looked into nothingness like she was lost in a dark place she wanted to come back from. Sometimes she would cling onto me tighter because she was battling with evils of a destroyed childhood. Sometimes she would just touch her stomach and argue in her mind to keep her tears at bay. Sometimes she would break in front of me a little more.
Her eyes opened, a happy energy dancing in her brown orbs.
"They are so normal! They are nothing special! You just compliment my eyes because you are my husband." That's how our first fight had started.
She finally woke up after some time. Her face glowing and excited for another day of spreading love and smiles.
"I love you, husband of mine." She said.
"You are so beautiful, wife of mine." A shy blush creeped onto her face.
I stand now in the same room with the absence of her presence to accompany me. I see the place she laid her beautiful body now. How her entity had now exploded into her scent and her promises and more memories than I can handle. I look at her mirror, half-wishing on empty hopes that she would magically reappear beside me like she always used to. I touch her pillow, remembering her silky hair running between the gaps of my fingers like liquid cotton.
"Do it more." she would have said. "It feels very nice."
We spent an abnormal amount of nights building a future on "what ifs" and "maybes". But nobody had told me that these "what ifs" and "maybes" would not bring my wife back. That someday I would yearn to see her eyelashes whip her eyes when she woke up or hear her slight growl of frustration when her nail polish spilled out.
Those dreams now dissolve into a million unfulfilled promises. Into a million unsaid words.
The room felt too dull suddenly without her sparkle. Like it had been sucked of life. Just how I was now. The gashes in my damaged soul split open without her presence, my tears breaking into an ugly waterfall she would have hated if she saw. It was suffocating to live in the room that smelled and tasted like hers but didn't have her. I was falling apart at the seams, the realisation that she was never going to walk through this door to hug me, hitting like a sack of bricks. I cried for the loss of the light of my life, for the awareness that had settled in that she was now under a gray rock some few miles away from me, for the empty voids in my ugly past that uncurled onto the silent night and lay bare for only my eyes, for the lifeline I had lost and for the happiness that had drowned. I cried for myself, that my last words to her were just calling her beautiful. A word so cheap, so unjust to how she really was.
So I lay in the spot beside hers, breathing in her scent and feeling her warmth seep into my black suit. I lay imagining my gorgeous,gorgeous wife sleeping beside me with her hand on the place above my heart. I lay reminiscing in the beauty of her curves and her smile and the strength the broken girl I knew had, to fix herself. To fix me. I lay remembering her pink lips quivering every time she cried.
And I lay in dying hopes and dry wishes that when I wake up this time, I see her tiny brown spheres staring into mine.