Stories

By Rehet Kaur Walia

And just like that, he became a story.

One that I’d play in a black theatre,

coloring tenebrous silences with artistry,

a breathing echo, vivid and loud.

And just like every other time I’d fall into an escape,

a conscious slumber, a dreamy fantasy,

welcome and enchanting only until I’m jolted awake,

disillusioned by a recurring epiphany…

…That much like some scalding liquid,

scorches my skin at the slightest touch,

and reminds me of his absence, 

as another wound becomes part of the redundancy.

The disenchantment would be followed by yearning,

occasionally a little regret.

I would spare a thought for the futility of wishing on shooting stars,

I would smile at what was and its absence would tug at my heart

If only time weren’t a seamless thread

If only we could’ve gotten stuck in frames of tangles

If only I could turn a stone over in my hand thrice 

If only this was the part that’s ‘all in my head’

I would think of ‘ifs’ for a while before they got too loud,

before they’d beckon me to fall once again,

before I let the images that faded into black walls of the theatre,

resurface… and burst into colors and sound.

Before I gave way to the temptation,

before I lost my ground,

I’d be afraid of another one going away.

Yet another protagonist.

Because sometimes… people become stories,

that you can only play in a black theatre,

coloring tenebrous silences with artistry,

breathing echoes of grief and love.

By Rehet Kaur Walia