Last Day Mourns

Dear J,

Black, beautiful and daunting. Words that perfectly describe who you are.

Will you promise me something? Promise to keep all my secrets safe? You know it all, don’t you? Although you were born in the US, you’ve been raised by an Indian household, baby. Indian classical music and Rahman’s pieces have an effect on you like no other arousing you to challenge everyone around you, Fast & Furious style. I sure hope I’ve helped you develop a decent taste in music, then?

You are my second home, a shelter when I walk out the door in fury, lending me a shoulder to cry on. Always.

Bitching about abrasive downpours will feel so incomplete without your company now. And oh remember our near death experience? You stepped up and saved me from the wrath of caustic danger by taking it all on yourself. Instead of demanding care and attention for your wounded coheres, you bragged of your warrior like scars.

36,000 miles is how far we’ve come, but I still don’t want to say goodbye. But this is it, J. You and I. You have to move on and find a new home and be just as good. OK?

So long my lovely, J. So long.

But wait. We have one last trip back home still. Come, let’s hold hands and sing our favorite song in chorus with the nimbuses just the way you like it, loud and fast. You ready?

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