I am permanent.
Not a clichéd swirl of emotions. Not a storm that lasts for barely thirty minutes.
I’ll wait for you to realize this. Perhaps long enough to even erase even the slightest impressions of your existence from my memory. But I shall wait.
Perhaps I’ll even stop writing about you. But you, my dear, shall remember me. You shall remember me in the lifetime of good mornings. In the warmth of lilac sheets. In the blurry memories of drunken nights. You will document me in free verse and rhyme. In false notes. I will be your Zahir. I will engulf you in the deep embers that flare up when the light touches my iris. You will crave the map of veins in my hands hoping that they lead you to the road of your sanity. You will go to bed hoping that the morning brings with it a reality that is in sync with the one you weave into your thoughts each night. There will be some who caress your skin when I am not around. But my arrows with flaming tips would aim directly at your heart that life has partially frozen. And when peace starts to interrupt your thoughts, I will begin my onslaught once again.
But I shall wait for you. At least for a while. Until then, I will sit happily in the in betweens; in the pauses in your heartbeats and the ellipses in your sentences.