Stitches.

No, I don’t think love hits like an arrow.
It is something too delicate and fragile and beautiful to manifest itself in a way so crude,so overt.
It is something far more subtle, far more insidious.
The first pinprick of a needle, drawing but a drop of blood.
The first tug at the heartstrings as the needle pulls, and finds its mark again.
You can’t stop it, and you’re not entirely sure that you want it to.
It pulls on, quietly in the background.
A smile, a stitch.
A laugh, a stitch.
A pleasant memory that tickles that tucked away corner in your heart and that oft-ignored nook in your soul; a stitch.
A movie and the smell of melting butter and the sound of popping corn. Greasy fingers and lips; a stitch.
A brush of fingertips, soft and cautious; a stitch.
An arm around you, your head on a familiar shoulder, enveloped in a warmth and comfort you can never get enough of. A stitch, piecing together old wounds, staunching the blood that leaks out of it.
An embarrassing story that will be repeated a million times over; teasing jibes and full-throated laughter, a stitch.
On and on.
Until one day, you realise.
You’ve cross-stitched him onto your heart.

Gautami.

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The Wordless Words

A lot is said about how words can leave their mark. Envelop you in their warm embrace or slash you with wounds far deeper than physical ones. But sometimes its the words that never see the light of day which have the most profound impact. Words,half formed,that die on our lips. The unexpressed,which can express so much.

Words lost in that flutter of hopelessness,regret,fear and loneliness. Wisps of our innermost thoughts and feelings that we cannot admit-look closely into our eyes,you’ll find them seeking refuge there. They clutter inside us,beating at the walls of reserve we have carefully built,screaming to be let out. Scratching at us, leaving angry scarlet trails.

They do escape sometimes,in never minds and forget its. In deceiving and neglected I’m fines . In the quiet cries you sneak in when you think no one is listening,cries which make you feel-strangely-both exhausted and liberated. Like those secret,wordless words have finally found their way out. Until fresh ones accumulate again,smothering you. Tiring,so tiring.

Let them out. Free these words. Pour them into art and music and literature and whatever you can think of. Don’t waste them on deaf ears and closed hearts. Don’t imprison them. Accept them for what they are and set them free,and feel the weight lift as you soar. Up,up,up.

-Nayantara