Clasp of the hues (A short story)

 Her soft breaths on my face were trapped under the dome of her lazy hair strands that seemed golden with the morning rays of the sun, falling in between. Our hands were tangled and all I could see was her cheeks and corner of thin lips that painted a smile. All that golden aura around, the small black mole on her shoulders and the scent of her skin.

Few years ago

I was mad about sketching buildings that never leave my mind and had to cage them inside the dull amber papers of my notebook. Years ago, when I was drawing the interior parts of the Harrington public library, my eyes were stuck on a girl who sat beside the long Victorian glass window. She was reading the poetry of Neruda. Out of all the charcoal portraits on the walls of my small room, the oldest one is of Pablo Neruda’s and his poems put me to trance. If the color of love was blue, Neruda’s lines about love were the shades of blue I’ve never seen before or could ever forget.

I could not see her face, only a little portion of two fingers that were left behind by the long sleeves of that brown sweater for holding the book. For a second, she lowered the book and our eyes met. I wanted those eyes to remember me and not ignore like a stranger. I turned the page and started drawing. I didn’t have to look multiple times.

 

I quoted,

 “But I love your feet

only because they walked

upon the earth and upon

the wind and upon the waters,

until they found me.”

I walked towards her and kept the paper on the table politely. She raised her face from the book and looked at me. I smiled and slowly walked away. I was thinking about the color of her eyes when it was filled with sunlight. Was it amber? I don’t know, it could be one of the shades I felt while reading Neruda’s poems.

..........

The intermittent noise of the Prussian blue waves, that rises and falls…The sky was somber and heavy like it was holding back the tears with a pounding heart. 

I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with as much air it could take. Standing at the top of the cliff, the cold wind traced the bare skin of my neck. The piece of paper inside my pocket felt foreign to my consciousness. I took it out, the ink was smudged and blots of dried water drops were eminent on them.

The sore on the edge of eyelids made my vision hazy. The swelling of my heart blocked me from breathing the air I was constantly trying to inhale.

I read the words on the paper again.

 

I am sorry. I can't do this anymore.

 

I closed my eyes tight and thought about the way her eyes were filled with sunlight.

Letting the wind conspiring me to join the waves.