They told me, strangers could share dreams too. We were strangers. They told me, the end of a dream would be a celebration. But I rejoiced at the mere thought of our togetherness. They never failed to mention how dreams always keep you awake. But your endless stories blurred me into sleep mode each night. They asserted how hard work always pays off. But I do not think they ever fell for someone like you, or may be, they never really needed one absolute chance to explain their work:
Loving you was one fine record of labour I had done in my life. That night, I felt our souls being intertwined. “You are my reality,” I told myself. Next morning, just when I felt that I have given you my universe, I noticed you struggle with the wrinkles of a blissful time, before you went on to ask me for some space in our star-crossed oneness. And that is when you became a dream.
A dream that should either remain a dream unfulfilled or the one that should be forgotten terming it a nightmare. “You were my reality,” I told myself. I knew I had loved and lost you. What scares me today, you ask? The fact that, you often crawl into every corner of head and make me cold causing a tornado in my body, just like you used to, but only in my heart. You have become that ‘nothing’ when everybody asks me, “What’s wrong?”
Sure, people come and go. Others were my cigarette breaks, and you? You are a forest fire. How can you help me, you ask? Just give me back the centre of my universe, for it lies right within you. And we could be strangers. Again.