Died in your arms

It was like being on a high rise, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. She was his prisoner and he guarded the doors. The sunlight sometimes entered the little place she had started to call home and reminded her of the world she left behind the day she saw him. He never really saw her or talked to her. She was wherever he was, waiting to surrender to gravity but he never really let her. She loved him. The kind of love that at first clings to you, casts spells in promises, makes you see stars a little more brighter, sugar a little more sweeter and before you know it, becomes the one thing that can break you in pieces you won't even want to find. For finding them would finally end the search. Everyone but her knew she wasn't in love with him but the pursuit of him. The chase kept her alive, she had an aim. Him being a distancer made it all the more exciting. She lived for those stolen moments wherein he sat by himself, drawing in the curtain between him and her, gulped down a few shots, sighed taking another's name and let her crawl out. She mattered then, she thought. The moment she met his lips, her existence shattered. The sudden change of pace shined her fogged winters to an early spring. She felt loved. She swore it was somewhere there. Her death was his sanity. He felt better every time she fell. And then locked her back where she belonged- in his eyes.

Closer to him than anyone would ever reach, being born in his heart and dying in his hands.

Being the tears of the man she loved. The man who didn't.

© 2013 Neha Choudhry