By Swarnali Patra.
Every time they say infinite, I am reminded of an old love lost in verses, carved on the barks of oak trees and names written across the skyline.
Every time they spell nostalgia, I go back to a singular dimension of us when the odds made peace with us.
Every time they say oblivion, I gravitate back to what consumed us, the black hole like contraption that wore us down.
Every time they say delusion, I am back to being a masochist when I lit up the sky with my own light, burning myself and being delighted in the pain.
Every time they said love, I knew it like it was your name, the one I lost in verses, carved on the barks of oak trees and wrote across the sky line; the one that was infinite.