hey you, the lavender in my spring.

Don’t you hate me apologizing for trivial things ? What was that term I use in over-abundance ? Oh, sorry that I couldn’t recall. And I'm still unaware of the finder of it, or may be I could be entrapped in my own conscious oblivion. SORRY if you felt even the slightest delay in the flight of my love reaching you, because I enjoyed it writing, by letting you to wander my meadows. But in the beginning before I cut you loose, you stood with this aroma. I saw lots of lavenders, but the one who kissed me, actually all of me, was this little lady who sent her curious fragrance as alluring signals. Baby, I’m nestled in your arms. Can you feel it ?

The girl with the sweetest HELLO. The life to my inhalation. Hello you, my lavender in the mysterious meadows.

The days of my life were a self-revelation of the sweetness that I was missing. I tried reaching out for the bereft and what I got to have was an appealing amount of hope layering over my search. The ray of it thickened and I felt someone in the scope of my blurriness.

Did you find my dream ? Oh yes.

I slept hugging you; I felt your warmth. I made love to you; I watched you moan. I showered with you; I tickled your nipples. I played with those tresses; I drew in your scent. I combed your waterfall; I sensed you hushing. I made our favorite coffee; I pampered your stain. I walked holding you; I listened to your stories. I cracked lame jokes; I looked at you giggling. I sang your usual lyrics; I enjoyed you dancing. I ordered our dearest meal; I smiled at you munching. I opened the ice cream tub; I kissed your strawberry lips. I buried my eyes and I kept on loving. YOU.

Damn that’s a beautiful day. Isn’t it, my love ?

You were there everywhere, and still I couldn’t find you. Oh, was I only thinking ?

Is the countdown winding down, for our amazing day, all over again ? Can’t wait, huh ? Until then, please reside in me and allow me to seep in, in all of your divine psychology. Before you remember, my pumpkin is being loved.

P.S. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.” - Donna Tartt, The Secret History.

.......................................................US............................................................

This is indeed a letter of love I had sent to my lover, sparing minor changes in the manner of our love language.