You'll spend years being
compared to weather.
You'll wake up as "autumn."
By lunch, you're
"an unfinished bridge."
By dinner, you're "a slightly
anxious pillow."
Every argument will somehow
become a discussion about
migrating birds.
They'll pause halfway
through kissing you
because your left eyebrow
suddenly reminded them
of a coastline on an
old Portuguese map.
You'll never simply make tea.
You'll become "water
negotiating with leaves."
A headache will not be a
headache. It'll be
"the moon attempting to
hatch behind your forehead."
They'll forget your birthday,
but remember the exact
shade the sky was when
you laughed three
monsoons ago.
They'll compare your
silence to abandoned railway
stations, your patience to
furniture that has survived
five generations, and
your irritation to a pigeon
with unresolved
gut problems.
Worst of all, one day you'll ask,
"Do you love me?"
And they'll stare out of the
window for fifteen minutes
before saying,
"You remind me of a house
that keeps its lights on for
people who were never
coming home."
And somehow... you'll know
exactly what they mean.