Saturday, August 29, 2009
She sat there, her long dark hair flowing. Her fingers , gently strumming the guitar. Her eyes looking for something she had found but unsure of whether it was for her to keep. She rubbed her feet against each other to keep them warm. She started humming an incomplete song. Her voice controlled , yet free flowing with a subdued vibrato. People moved around her. Some, listening. Some enthralled. Only one, indifferent.
She didn't seem to mind. She sang for herself. All she could hear was the guitar, her voice and the staccato sound of his type-writer.
She sang for herself and him.
He sat there too. His unruly hair blowing in the wind. The dark shades on his eyes cutting off the world from his.He rocked gently as he typed away, periodic outburst of a continuous staccato. He was writing his song. His unwritten song.
All he could hear was her voice.His anodyne.All he could see was her silhoutte in the faintly lit room.All he could feel,was her.
He typed on. More fiercely than before. The typewriter, now acerbic. She was being offensively sober. It disturbed him.
She carried on like an acquiescent victim. She let her guitar cloud her voice when it choked under his intransigent air of indifference.
He stole a furtive glance at her from behind his shades. Their eyes met. Dark shades are only superficial barriers. Her eyes glistening, she looked away.
He could feel her breaking down.
Them, breaking away.
Leaving him, broken.
They had become a witty travesty of what people call lovers.
But love had always been just a four letter word.
They were each other's unwritten song. The reason for each other's incompleteness.
But their songs were different and best sung solo.
They would have been two heartless souls together.
But apart, they were two souls with one heart.