Limerence

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She loves the lines on his face, they tell her the story of his laughter. All the years etched in his bones, when he lived through his happily ever after, 

Each tiny freckle on his skin, tells story of once upon a time, of days he smiled till his cheeks hurt, without a reason or rhyme

She loves the way his voice sounds, the way his heart pounds to a mention, a sketch, a sliver or a shadow from..long lost..but known grounds,

An instant of silence..then he moves on, with a wink and a chuckle the darkness is gone. 

She loves the color of his eyes..they are like sunsets of their own, Warm and sad but glowing from the inside like a firestorm.

They shine and sparkle to his stories, like flames of a fire that is burning him, but also keeping him warm. 

 

 

 

** Limerence
(noun)
A state of mind resulting from romantic attraction, characterized by feelings of euphoria, the desire to have one’s feelings reciprocated, etc

 

 

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The Red Streak

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Curly, unruly, dark brown hair. Deep set, big, honey coloured eyes. Almost oval, sort of symmetric, wheatish face.
Vicariously living in the grey between Murphy’s law and the law of averages was the girl they said wore too much black and very little lace.
She loved ebony, it hid the blue that was carelessly left on her.
Lilacs and pinks wasn’t what she was looking for, but a sliver of silver was also a blur.

A white knight will save the hoary times, they said. Many came riding dashing chocolate mares, with promises of a bright shiny life but left disappointed cause she wouldn’t choose their gliterring wares.
She wasn’t looking for golden adulation or crimson affections. She just wanted someone to help her slay her sooty demons.

Caressing her purple scars in one inky moment, drenched in creamy moonlight she drew her sword and decided to fight.
Muddled whiplashes and bloodied wounds not deterring her sight.
They coloured her crazy, called her a rebel, even a freak.
But the girl who wore too much black and very little lace, had looked at evil dead in its eyes and found in herself a bold red streak.

That ivory girl now shows of her wins shyly with a hint of violet, while her dark brown hair glints with a slash of scarlet!

Storytime

ImageI read stories because they make me believe. Stories are fragile, created by balancing words on air with only imagination to hold them together. Stories are confounding, every beginning isn’t clear and all endings aren’t happy. I read cause it fill my mind.
I write stories to make sense of the chaos in my head. I write stories that I live in and the stories live in me. They help me understand, they help me in being understood. There are stories that end too fast and leave me craving, there are the ones that never end, they go on forever even when I stop reading.
Long stories are seductive, they wrap themselves around, like soft velvet as you read, you fall in love and the affair continues. A short story has a different feel to it. Like Stephen King said “A short story is like a kiss in the dark from a stranger”
Stories make the world perfect with words knit together in harmony, making reality palatable by adding a squeeze of fiction to it.
I make my stories, while my stories make me!
Photo credit: Ashutosh Khandkar http://framingreflections.wordpress.com/

I Fly!

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I fly over the clouds, where angels dwell, chase sun rays around filling my pockets with star dust. Soar above the mountains of the sky, leaving footprints on them. My lungs swell with the freedom I breathe, eyes glitter with stars as I leave the earth behind. I sail around the oceans of the air, with my wings spread wide. I feel one with the skies and all these magical things, I am in love with the wind beneath my wings!

Photo Credit: Kunal Uppal https://www.facebook.com/kunaluppal23?fref=ts