Dance this life away?

"Tides they turn,
and hearts disfigure.
But that's no concern,when we're wounded together."- Jason Mraz

Wake up one morning, in the same bed, the same house, the same you. Yet everything is different.

You don't complain about the rain anymore. The weather's not too hot anymore. Work isn't taxing anymore. And the hours aren't too short anymore. No, you're not in love. But in the prospect of being.

What happens when you've known someone for two years of your life, not so intimately, but intimate by default. And one morning they're changing the way you look at Bombay monsoons, or determining how many fits of rage, how many bouts of tears, how many shocks of happiness you're entitled to in a day. Or two. Or more.

You might want to get out of the situation. You might want to stay. But it's not upto you anymore. And when it was, you didn't even know you were in the situation.

I don't remember things being this complicated when I was sixteen. Then why do you lie to me and tell me that this is going to be just as if we were sixteen?

All I want to do is hold your hand, when no one's watching, snuggle upto you after a much too intoxicated night, watch every little movement of yours, while you stay focused on Paranormal Activity, with your arm tightly wrapped around my stomach. Watch you whisper to me that I'm beautiful, at the break of dawn. Lie, just for a cup of coffee, benson lights, and you. Steal, looks and smiles, and private dances, in a crowded club. Exchange lives, exchange breaths, exchange souls and still stay intact.

Has it really been a week? It feels like a lifetime. Much too long for you to have been an impervious backdrop to the scenes in my reel of life and not have said a word until now.

Then why is it that when you chose to speak, and step out of every little frame of anonymity, to finally make me see you, you also brought with yourself a window to my old life, the ghosts that refuse to stop haunting. I want you without the memory of my mistakes. I want you without you being hurt or scared, of being you again. I want you, fearless.

I want you, and I don't register the thoughts of others, because when I look at you, I hear laughter, and a friendship, that at least in my head, I forged when I was sixteen.

If only I'd met you then. If only I'd stopped myself. But you're in ink now. And I'm too far along.
"
Encore.