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At this very moment somebody must be kissing somebody for the very first time in some part of the world.
In 2108 on an unsuspecting November evening when two people kiss for the first time a hundred years after, it’ll have to be you and me again.
The silver thread in our breaths as if they were someone else melding souls.
You and I dream. Of stars, of hidden fairies in flowers, of the creaks in time through which we seep. A nook in which we keep. Ourselves. You carefully fold in (d)reams while I beg of you not to iron the crease.
Behind our backs when the two of us shook conspiring hands. Still enrapt in a kiss while you and I live. Fight. Die. Starve.
Afterlives we brood upon and plan. We disagree. Plan again. This immortal love and in them implicit deaths we tremble at.
How should we live on till then? Every single moment where I want to mould and melt with you— like fetal twins. Nook in nook, corner in corner, your midriff against my heart, half mooned bodies.
Sleep not just together in one bed in separate sleeps, but sleep with you inside your sleep. Die with you inside your death. Live with you inside your life.
That close, my love, that close.
(Illustration by Avirup Ghosh)
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Debolina Dey is a doctoral student at the English department, Delhi University.
