Typing out loud

 Your apartment feels like home. In the course of the last few years while I befriended you, as if I befriended your apartment too. Completely unaware of it. I can't recall at what point the walls of your home grew too familiar to me.  I have grown too close to the potted plants in broken coffee mugs, the diwali decor that stays there throughout the year, the kept aside broken window but most of all the sunlight.  As I was brushing today, I realised your place has eleven windows and that leaves us with so many windows that we still did not sit by.  Your place will always be a reminder of shared Maggie's, best of conversations, first times, ugly fights,  and of how we said let's go and didn't make a move. And I will never know how to separate your apartment from you.  In the last two years of feeling completely homeless, your apartment gave me a home.

 It was that time of the year when the sun shines bright and the wind blows cold. As if it is summer in the hue and winter in the air. This is my favourite kind of weather. I get myself out of my sweater and put it back on every few minutes. Road trips, bright yellow and a familiar restlessness.  It has been a month since then. I joined a music class last week. Everyone plays something throughout the class. Seems like every conversation has background music to it. It feels weirdly calming.  Somedays I love how a harmonica sounds or the smell of turpentine while I paint. Pretty flowers, window seats and the pink sky during sunset. The other days, I don't.  Sunlight plummet on the white door of my room; making it look yellow during the afternoon. Yesteryear was slow and so much about such things. Leisurely and passive. Just the way I like. But March is here again.