Loves That Last
Pale pinks. Polaroids. Dancing.
The whiff of earth when it rains. The scent of old musty books. The fresh-out-of-bath scent of a baby.
Good good conversations. Best of friends. Seeing them after months. Travelling. Looking out the aeroplane window.
Stretch of beach sand under the feet. Sea breeze. Walking barefoot on moist grass. Coming back home. Sleeping just a little longer. Michael Bublé. Slow dancing. Jiving.
The soft curl of the outer petals of a rose. White muslin curtains rising and falling with the wind. An old teakwood study table. Hot, clear chicken broth on a cold day. Ben Howard. The favourite cousin. Belly laughs.
Keeping the palms on the thick bark of an aged tree. Trees.
Spending some months on an island, a village, a forest, a mountain, or a farm. Spending some months in a non-city place. Watching the night sky there.
Walking into museums and feeling a longing, nostalgia for a place and time never seen. Independence. Feeling inspired. Learning a new skill. Berlin Artparasites. Murakami. Calvin and Hobbes. Oranges melting into crimsons melting into purples in the twilight sky. Marine Drive.
Zeera and hing tempering in yellow moong dal. Jasmine flowers in a string of Gajra. The soft, resonant sound of a payal. Mango pickle.
Mountain air. Pinks of the bougainvilleas and fresh greens of the leaves against a clear, light-blue sky. Celebrations with people who matter. Silence. Solitude. Self-exploration. Hugs. An open heart.
Stretching. Working the hell out. Being sore.
His hands. The curve of her breast.
All this, and definitely more, just to say that our love for some things and some people always stays. Not all loves are transient.
Some loves, they last.