On the table with two chairs we face each other, after a long time. We choose to ignore to look into each other's eyes. It's a bit romantic. At the end, it makes you weak, they say.
We reflect on life in a language which is not our own. We are in someone else's property without knowing it. Its walls grow higher and stronger when we confess what we feel. Isn't that what you mean, echoes through its walls.
Love moves beyond boundaries only when we love in multiple territories, in multiple languages, in multiple ways, and shy away to say: look, I am born out of Mohabbat and shall carry it wherever I go like an essence.
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Conversations overlap. Silence grows amid us like leaves. Two chairs and the table become steady by the heaviness of our hearts.
There is so much to say. There is so less time to say it.
Maybe, there is new language in the process of making. It moves with silence. It grows deaf to voices. There is a possibility of it having an alignment with gestures.
Accidentally, our eyes meet. And there, there, in your eyes I see a stranger competing, and then slowly completing my reflection.
