morning song

Dark room, no sharp slice of sun. I extricate my sleep laden face from your chest, a little irritated. Light a cigarette, relishing the quick rush of morning nicotine. I fold and refold a paper, analysing the newly formed crease. You sleep steadily, mouth slightly open. I admire your beautiful cheekbones. You stir, stretch out your hand, reaching for me. I nestle like a cat. You suddenly remember something grave from the previous night. Frowning, you start rolling a joint. I sulk, argue. You retort. We play this for thirty minutes and suddenly, stoned, I pun. Instant exchange of mirth and consequent displacement of anger.
We stretch, talk, watch some television. We eat. You, meticulously with your knife and spoon, I clumsily with my hands. I touch your funny hair. You stare at me, call me affectionately. An invader walks in. I yawn, move downstairs and read for a bit. My mind creates a gigantic web and starts weaving patterns on it. I turn grey. Occasionally, crimson.  I am grim. I can hear your laughter. Dusk sets in slowly, spreading its beautiful red face across the sky. We prepare for the night.

I know you are alone. Crazily getting sucked inside that vortex. It's almost the state when you wake up after a turbulent dream. You fight cobwebs or a giant tree, and the insistent alarm clock tells you something has gone awry. 
I know you are tempted sometimes, tempted to turn it around, sit inside the coupe of your stolen ship and not budge an inch. 

The box

There was a tiny boy. He had very white teeth and he liked grinning a lot. When he grinned, his eyes crinkled, and sparkled at the same time. It was quite marvellous.  He was kind of scrawny and had crazy hair which he continuously brushed away from his forehead. He liked playing with the craziest of toys. And he found buttons in strange shops and stored them in a very special box. He met a little girl, even tinier than him, playing in the meadow one day and decided to give her the box. The girl looked at him suspiciously with big brown eyes and refused with a firm tilt of her determined chin. The tiny boy was stubborn. He really really wanted the little girl to take his box and make it her own. He was quite a nice boy, you see. The box was beautiful, with little stars on it.
The boy then told the girl, "If you take this box from me, you'll be happy." The girl scoffed a little bit. She was happy all right. She had Garcon, the big frog, Strawberry, her pet bunny, and the meadow. She needed nothing else.
The boy was unhappy. He did not want his box anymore. When he went home, his mom saw that his mouth had drooped a little bit. She drew him to her arms and said, "What stole the smile, my precious?" The boy told his mom the story of the girl in the meadow. His mom made him some cocoa, and told him, "I think the box is meant to be yours for now. The box does not need a little girl, it needs you. Fill it up with joy..your toys, your wooden buttons, your drawings, badges, pebbles and anything else you treasure.When you think it's filled to the brim, keep it tucked away safely. Someday, you'll need it again." The boy gave his mom a big kiss and carried the box safely upstairs.
Years passed. The boy was all grown up. He had mentioned the box to no one ever.
He was heartbroken, this boy. He wanted someone to take his box from him, and explode with happiness.
He walked over to the meadow, sat under his favourite tree, and took out the box carefully from his coat pocket. The stars still merrily glinted. He missed his mother. He looked up at the sky and kept staring for the longest time.
"Hello." He looked back, startled. There was a girl standing behind him, with the prettiest brown eyes and a very familiar chin. "Hey, you scared me." The girl smiled. "Sorry. Can I sit? You kind of stole my favourite reading spot, so." They sat side by side, in comfortable silence, admiring the beauty of the meadow in spring.
The boy looked at her. He hesitated for a second, before picking up the box and handing it to her.
The girl twinkled at him and slowly opened it.