Elly Grey

A love that is a love, a love like no other. A love lived like no love ever. 

Eleven seconds.  Not sixty, not thirty, just eleven.  Don't tell me that you don't have the time.  You have eleven seconds.  Don't tell me that in your waking hours, you are that occupied, you cannot pause.  You can pause for eleven seconds. You did today, for eleven seconds  Maybe in your day, you don't think of me now and I'm not in your list of importance.  But today for eleven seconds, you stopped doing what you were doing; you thought of me only for a monent, you paused for eleven seconds. 

I don't make shapes out of the clouds.  I make shapes in the spaces in between them.  Just like I'll listen to the silence,  To hear what people don't say. 

All these posts that say 'you think you have time'; 'you didn't realise it was the last time' hit me harder and harder. Of course it's the last time. It's the fking last time. We just don't know it.

And when we are done with all of this, you and I are going to Italy. We will roam the cobbled streets in quaint villages and see the Dolomites. You'll pose in the middle of Milan and I'll take photos of you like you are a model. We will eat freshly made pasta and warm bread and not give two hoots about weight gain. Because you'll be free Baby. Free. 

 My heart would beat a rhythm of love and belonging for Pakistan.  It's the excitement of the plane doors opening, and that scent of 'watan ki mitti', a fragrance that follows me home in my suitcase. The gorgeous, majestic mountains, the ancient rivers, and the quiet simplicity of my ancestral village, existing alongside the vibrant energy of the twin cities. My heart remembers the warmth of my grandparents' smiles, the laughter shared with cousins, and the hospitality of my extended family. These memories, are nurtured by my father's dedication to our roots because he made sure we visited Pakistan every few years. Now they are moments and memories that tell me that I come from something, somewhere, and I will always belong. 

And within her four walls, were chambers that echoed. Howling winds carrying pain through each room. Nobody asked her, because nobody saw. Swallowing the lump in her throat and breathing back the water in her eyes, hoping nobody would see the breakdown but at the same time hoping that someone would, please...see. 

I'm too old to play these games.  Too exhausted to pretend that I'll not reach out to you because you didn't reach out to me. Too tired to keep quiet because you're quiet.  I want to be happy. I want to feel loved, and I know that a big part of my happiness is you.  So I'll ditch the power play games and break the ice and will let you know that I did think of you and I'm saying hello.  Do you know why? Because life is short and before you know it it'll be over. And I do not want to waste any day on silly silences and me not telling you that I missed you. 

 In many-worlds, you and I, we exist. But just not in this one. 

When I see you again, I'm going to give you a box. It'll be a box decorated with a rose.  In the box will be a number of things, like:  - all the things I wanted to say to you but didn't - all the voice notes that I sent but weren't listened to - the poems written for you that you didn't understand - my photographs that you didn't open or save - the cards that you didn't keep - the handwritten letters that you didn't read - the conversations that we didn't have because you didn't call - the laughter that was lost - the memories never made I'll give these all to you. It'll be my gift to you. Packed in a box. Tamed and tidy. Years of containment. Years of longing. Years of love. 

And when I've gone, you can all sit and have a party in my honour. Each one of you will then say, "I should have loved her more."

 Ask him, if he cares about your heart.  Ask him, if he sees the colour of your soul. Ask him, that when he might be annoyed with you, he will still be kind. Ask him, that when he is tired, if you are the one who brings him peace.