You promise to have my name inked on your skin someday and I say I wouldn’t ever do the same for you or for anyone at all. It is way too clichéd and the cost of having a tattoo removed is far greater than that of getting one. Still, I tell you, my name would look beautiful on your hips, and you would laugh. A few more of such laughs later, we break each other’s hearts and part ways.
It has been 10 years since I made or heard you laugh. 10 years since we inked our hearts with the atoms of each other’s existence. And after all this time, nostalgia stands at your doorstep in the form of me.
One thing leads to another and we are in your room, ripping each other’s clothes apart, drooling with lust, bodies oozing with passion. Our cravings having taken over every other emotion, we forget you have a boyfriend and that I am just a loser. I trace the edges of the universe on your naked skin and trail kisses down from over your arched back, but before I could reach where we both wanted my lips to be, I spot a name over your hips. Written there in my favorite font lies a name. That name is not mine.
I stumble into the reality that lies beside me and I know this won’t last. And I know we won’t last. So I decided to leave.
You lie in your bed, naked. Your hands on your hips right over where his name has been etched.
You know, I will not come back. Not again. But before you leave you catch a glimpse of my naked butt. And there lies in my favorite font a name. That name is yours.
Sarthak Sharma lives in Delhi and loves to write anything between a cliched romance to junkie fiction.
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