Yellow
I’ve all the letters you sent me years ago when we thought we were falling in love.
You with a witty yet silent, bold yet nerdy girl.
Me with a quiet yet full of stories, kind yet mischievous boy.
I remember reading them sitting under the shade of the Gulmohar tree, as squirrels peeped into your words from high branches.
Occasionally, I would pick up a flower and press it along with the book I would be reading then. Often re-reading certain lines over and over again as the book progressed and someone said something similar to your letter. As if the words from your letters could melt into the book. As if you could change the words printed in the book as per your letter magically.
Fascinatingly, now, the pages of the letters have turned yellow from years of being pressed in books, as I re-read them again and again on days and nights when I thought of you and sometimes psycho-analysing them when I wondered why were you writing to someone like me?
Even though the letters are old and now I remember every word and verse of them, I keep on going back to them searching for answers to questions we never asked each other. Hoping that maybe, somehow they’ll have the answers, maybe your words will magically appear answering my questions, but they never do.
The yellow pages of the letters now remind me of hope. How everything in life seemed glorious and hopeful.
The yellow pages of the letters now make me hopeful. Of how everything could still be bright and joyous.
The yellow pages of the letters now sing to me in langauges I don’t understand. Confusing me with feelings and emotions I never thought I could feel. Of confusion, helplessness, loss, love, hope, sacrifice and something indefinable.
The yellow pages of the letter are my hope. That maybe there are still words left unsaid in the letters and maybe they need more than one letter to explain.
image source: https://pin.it/67HbcBR
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