Of long ago

I had once loved a man, he had deep dimples on his cheeks and jade black eyes. I had left semicircles of teethmarks on his honey-colored shoulders. I had loved him without knowing how or why. I had loved him, simply. I had loved him in evenings on rocks where mosquitoes buzzed and landed on collarbones. I had seen him mad. I had seem him happy. He had seen me crazy. He had seem me happy. I had loved him in a different language than his or mine. My thoughts in Bengali, I couldn't express in Malayalam, his thoughts he couldn't in Bengali.

I lost him in the crossroads of life. But if I could return, I would return. I would sit on his lap and tell him stories. Tell him of the awesome things that would happen to us. Tell him that he was lovely, and a bit crazy, and that was okay, because it was better to be a madman than a walking corpse with Rolex watches, calendars, and brunch-plans.

I would. I would say that I'd miss him when he had stopped missing me, I would remember his smile when mine had just faded from his imagination.