Can I Call You Mine?

Upon hearing the clicking of the car door, I am startled, frightened even. But oh, it’s just this one person I dote on. With furrowed brows and curiosity in their eyes, they sit beside me.

I sit in a car, listening to all the same songs with soft bass, mellifluous voices and words that mourn for love that was never returned and cry. I do not know what makes this sink overflow. Perhaps, I’m Shakespeare’s Venetian Merchant; maybe, I’m Orpheus with no Eurydice, or maybe even a child taking birth.

The world seems to spin and do things only tiny atoms can. I can hear a deafening rhythm and feel nothing, not even the warmth of my skin. Upon hearing the clicking of the car door, I am startled, frightened even. But oh, it’s just this one person I dote on. With furrowed brows and curiosity in their eyes, they sit beside me.

Ah, what stress it brings to one when their cherished one witnesses them in troughs. My sight, along with my thoughts of embarrassment, has sunken to the dirty, dusty, rough car floor carpet. Like a person riveted by art, they hold my chin and look into my eyes. Just the tiny touch of that palm has restored my being with an electric spark and due to my now heightened senses; my shame has achieved a new level. The same palm caresses my cheek and wipes away the whole riverine that I had created just a few minutes ago. Hot breaths and an awkward chuckle transitions into the most wonderful feeling; the touch, texture, and taste of their lips.

To resist that wonder, is a Herculean task and why must I? Because somebody outside must be staring at me with disgust? Because I’ll have another somebody watching over me with pride? Because the expression of love is outrageous? Because the thought of somebody else’s happiness, hurts like a knife to the heart? In a world where nobody and nothing are separate from one another, the presence of boundaries that compartmentalize, you from me is idiotic.

My inner monologue goes on, but the frolicking of lips does not. No amount of trying to break the ice would work, so we just look off into space and drive to a place far away from our complex minds and our meaningless words.

“Can I call you mine?” I whisper. “Maybe,” they say, with a touch of pink on their face.

About the author

Ritu

-14 -they/them -local poet -mathematics enthusiast -shorty -lowkey literary critic
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