That thing you trample on, my friend, laid at your doors, that thing – is my heart.

आँखों में पढ़ लोगे, ये सोच के बैठे थे

I have an eternal complaint. The only time you seem to have to speak to me are when you’re driving, alone, and have nothing else to do. That’s the only time you call me. No other time you feel like talking to me, like ever. I call, and most of the time you’re not interested in talking. So pretty much next to nothing conversations on weekends, holidays etc etc. And on days when you’ve been working or hanging out after work late in the night, there’s no time again. Times when you’re out with friends, God forbid I should call or message. You dont talk and just get mad at me for interrupting and I feel guilty. I message, and you reply some times, ignore the rest of the times. 

I think, ever since I have known you, I have been waiting for the time when you’d want to talk to me, when you’d want nothing more than just being with me and listening to me and speaking to me. When it’d be okay to call when I want because nothing delights you more than taking my call and everything else can wait. 

I do that, don’t I? I cheer up just at hearing your voice, and I say that much. Not that you ever call because you just want to talk.

I guess you do that to your other friends, and that’s really the only reason I’m jealous some times of your other friends. Maybe you dont even do that to them, I don’t know, but sometimes there’s evidence. 

That’s not really important to me, you know. Thing is, I really really am a person of words. Words I say, words I hear, words I want you to listen to, words I wish you said. And there’s just so much of a gap there. There’s that which I have always wanted to hear from you and never have. There’s that which warms my heart when you say it, but you kinda say it once a year or less, not often enough. There’s that which I say with a bit of my soul, and it falls on deaf ears. There’s that which I write, and I hope you read and understand, but never resonates in you. And there’s that which I write for you and present to you, but mostly dont even get an acknowledgement. Maybe I am overreacting with the “nevers”, maybe I am just amplifying what I am feeling now to forever, but you get the picture don’t you? Words are what I hang by, words are what I crave for, words are what I’m eternally waiting for.

Because words are all I have.

I kinda feel I will wait all my life and that day will never come.

But I cant give up. Waiting feels awful, but still better than giving up. There’s hope.

मर्ज़ ऐसा हमारा बे-इलाज ना होता

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