Love You Too

“There on our right side are the snow caped peaks of Murree, too far to reach, too close to imagine. On our front stands the Mashkpuri Top, which literally translates to ‘Hill of Salvation’. We’ll stay here for the rest of the day and will get back little before the evening. You are free to wander around, delighting yourself with the true beauty of the world, the mountains”, the guide said in announcing tone.

Discussing casually, the hobbies, the ups and downs of life and passions they had deep in their hearts, they strolled across the lower plains towards Mashkpuri. He told her how things been governing his mind, forcing him to go on nocturnal walks that would last little before the sunrise and she told him how badly she hated reading, imagining events that aren’t possible in real world.

They were ascending the top, holding hands of each other, stumbling together, falling together, rising again and advancing in the same direction together. They differed in some aspects, alike in others. Differences that couldn’t take them apart, alikeness that brought them even closer on each step taken, each steep covered, each laugh shared.

“Mountains are mystical that capture all of your attention, opening your mind exponentially for none but to let you experience their beauty in the right way. Once forgets himself on the hill stations, lost completely into another world, a world that everyone far is deprived of, a world that has hidden treasure inside, revealing one at a time, until you long for more, until you long for none, until you cease to exist”, he had read somewhere.

“mountains have no beauty but a catalyst that helps in recognizing one, the one that have been around, being ignored under the outer influence of the cruel world. Mountains just help you concede the real one”, he thought.

It was below 0 C on the top, a temperature too good to freeze one’s blood, too fragile to affect even slightly, the fire within them. The cool breeze was gushing through their bodies, placing small particles of snow on top of her hair, decorating them like snowy peaks,  feasting his nostrils with her scent.

He held her closer, circling his arms around her. She pressed her chest against his ribs. He kissed her little longer than normal and whispered, ‘I Love You’. Smog from her mouth froze still on their tops, dispersing slowly  through the mountain ranges, echoing, ‘I Love You Too’.

I'm Jealous

It was 9:35 in the Morning. Realizing that I was getting last, I was almost running towards my classroom while she bumped into me, entering the university gate. “Slow down” she said. “Sorry” was all I could say in response, picking her bag up from the ground. While handing the bag over to her, she touched my fingers unintentionally, and ever since I’ve been jealous of my fingers, looking at them with mixed feeling of happiness, dismay and pain, wishing to touch her again, wishing to bump into her again.

I saw her talking to her classmate in the noon. What a charming, young lady having all the divine beauty, was she. I could see her friend listening to her with utter concentration, and I felt jealous of this guy, who could listen to her, look into her eyes and reply her in manly manner. It was just impossible for me to listen to her and keep my nerves under my control. I was too weak to bear her, too weak to listen, too weak to respond. 

I see her, carrying that brown bag, hanging on her shoulders, mocking every passerby, mocking everyone who would see her once in her eyes and lose everything to this lady with charismatic attraction, like I did, like most of the men did, like all of the men did. I am jealous of this hand bag, the way it dances around her, the way it accompanies her into her bedroom, the way it enjoys this privilege of touching her hips.

I see her rolling the pen into her mouth, pressing it under her teeth while thinking deeply and then holding it into her hand, putting her mind onto the paper. I see her saliva shining onto its cap for a short moment before winds take it with them, short enough to catch my eyes. I’m jealous of this pen, that feels soft touch of her tongue, rolls around her rosy lips, runs on the paper, converting her thoughts into words, shedding ink with every latter she writes, dying slowly, giving all its ink for her, giving away its life for her, into her hands.

I see that hair catcher, sitting on her top, holding her hair morning to evening, inhaling her scent, firming its grip around her, until she touches it again, freeing her hair, placing it back onto side table of her bed, where it witnesses her sleeping carelessly facing it. I am jealous of this clip, the clip that holds her hair in place, the clip that watches her letting free her hair in the evening, the clip that never sleeps, looking at her lying on the bed with closed eyes.

I am jealous of everyone who have ever listened to her, ever talked to her, ever been close to her. I am jealous of everything that proudly belongs to her, feels her, touches her, watches her. 

I am jealous of my eyes, my fingers…