by Jasmin Guleria
I've finally adjusted to the constant flow of traffic and typical weekday construction that bangs along the tree-lined, bar-hoppers dream of an avenue I call home. Lying in bed under a down comforter which looks more like peaks of whipped egg whites, the sun's glare beckons me to get up as I lay burrowed inside, not wanting to move, last nights dream laying vivid in my mind. Eyes open, the day begins, the taste of your mouth lingers, while the sound of your voice continues to pound inside my skull, but worst of all is the silence of words left unspoken that haunts me consistently like a constant migraine no amount of pain killers can cure. Will I ever see you again? The mixture of anger and hurt is palpable and I wish to throw it in your face in the guise of a dirty martini. I am sure the day will come when I will see you and live out my dramatic soap-opera moment, leaving you fumbling for words that are too late in our lives for me to hear or you to say.
Jasmin Guleria is a freelance writer currently residing in New York. Her work can be read here.