(Read caption) Yesterday my room smelled of goodbyes. I was busy plucking the dreams, you left last night. Shigeru was playing live, his acoustic version of 'Lovers' in my room. The instruments harmonized in rhythm echoing your voice. The other day you will be leaving, I sat on my balcony for whole day waiting for your 'see you soon'. Your terrace smelled of delayed spring that is obliterating into a saga of old town when we played hand in hand. I stayed there vulnerable on the chair everytime the song cried for longing. The room witnessed the remains of my heart. I noticed yesterday, you were wearing grey as my umbrella sleeves hanging, in the solitude, waiting for rain. The moment you saw me praying for rain, you opened the brown pages of our childhood and I appeared to be smelling your words. You turned every page, so slightly as not to touch the innocence of time that has changed over years leaving us remainders in halves. You were reminding me about the wind touching the grass and I said, 'your promised plague, swept the fields of memories into a mortuary'. You wanted to talk to me more and I reach out to you but the leftover toxins led to the loss of memory that has mortified the veinlets into a blurred vision of yesterday's. After two hours you will be gone and I am here witnessing for my November rain. You are shoving all your spring flowers in your bag. I am still plucking the dreams from your terrace. You were holding tight the stars in your hand to sow them parallely in the ground of forgiveness and I was reading Slyvia Plath's, I am Vertical; "It is more natural to me, lying down. Then the sky and I are in open conversation.
