Experiments

            Once someone asked if she was a beach person to which she faked a smile. They sat down on a beach, laid on their backs, drowning their feet in the white sands under the violets and oranges of their teenage summers.

            He believed she was amused by the never ending waves that caressed sultry mermaids in the shallow turquoises, the bubbles the oceans brought carrying salty nothings, those star fish scattered upsidedown on the shore, awaiting the touch of a rebirth swaying their cilia to oceanic roars or perhaps in awe of the heavens, the seashells and their secret inhabitants snailing into their mysterious homes in the damp earth. 

             The secrets of the sea did never allure her though. All through the moments shouldered by the broken winds that hustled over their bare backs, she was rather diving into the depths of her own secrets! 

            Another, misinterpreting her silence, asked her out into the wild and to the mountains, though she remembered not to smile this time. In great heights and long hikes, all she felt was breathlessness. Between the specks of sweat sprouted above her lips and the prismatic dew drops those misty dawns had left over in the foliage, there was her, struggling for air that he failed to see.

            Drenched in the green and fog, they made immense love in the backdrop of silent drizzles and distant chirp of crickets, under the canopy of their youth.The wilds hold no secrets anymore but nostalgia, old and useless. It's like laddoos you binge-eat, you know happiness in the first nibbles, but then at the gulp of the last crumb you start to feel the heaviness it brings. 

           And the third discovered that she was a closed bedroom soul who preferred lukewarm water over coffee and tea, silence over music and shallow talks, and dimlit rooms where the dusty windows were left half shut for the lonely spiders to design sparkling webs across the rusty old bars, for the cold moonrays to seep in, the voices of the night owls to blend in. 

That she kept travel diaries without travelling, reminiscing journeys yet to be taken. A closed bedroom person who read, slept and dreamt on the same wrinkled bedsheet. Who migrated at night to places her books said, got lost in there stalking the characters, lurking behind the curtains in their living rooms overhearing their dialogues.

She rested her body on the mattress letting her soul dwell in worlds afar, like a ghost, where he met her many times, like an alien who found his soulmate, while he read to her!