Dearest,
The petrichor in this late monsoon reminds me of the musty smell of your body. You were like a sculpture, too perfect, sculpted in the hands of a master craftsman. Never did it appear surprising to me that I was attracted like a moth towards the flame of you. Until the day of my marriage, I had hoped against hope that you would manage to come and whisk me away from my sepia-coloured life to a technicolour, fairy-tale life full of love, desire and affection. No, you never arrived. Despite my vehement protests, I was married off amidst much fanfare to the person who is known as my husband in society. Yet, I have never been able to love him the way he desires to be loved. Despite my status as a married woman with two children, I never forgot the floral notes of your perfume, the graceful way in which you draped sarees, your luscious lipstick-tainted lips, your raven-black hair spilling to your shoulder, that stolen kiss in a long ago summer afternoon. Nobody can take your place in my heart. The love that I felt for you surpassed all societal restrictions.
Still yours affectionately,
J.
image source: Unsplash
This flash-fiction received a Jury Special Mention at the September 2022 Writing Challenge conducted by Beyond the Box. The challenge was to write a piece of prose or poetry in which every sentence/line begins with the last letter of the previous sentence/line. Word/Line Limit was 200 words for prose/20 lines for poetry.
