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I'm looking at pictures. The ones you made inside me. The teacups arranged on a shelf in the Inner Kitchen...is it the second shelf, or the third? Your desk piled high with two towers of books. All of them have your name written inside(all except that last one I borrowed. I forget the name)

The bed with the flat pillow where I would sit and read while you slept.(Oh and the days you would walk into my room carrying your own speakers. Sometimes it would rain, and we would stand together in the balcony, hands barely touching, your music breathing in my air.)Here is one of my feet just as I heard the phone ring,the ringtone I had for you.(I'm sorry it is blurred, I was in such a hurry to answer.)
Here you are wearing bright yellow and not looking at me. You had bought me a book for no reason other than remembering that I wanted it. You hurried up the steps, handed it to me, looked away and hurried back.

These are my shoulders, the first time you touched me by yourself. I was wearing the burnt-orange kurta...you were sitting on a jhoola...you looked at me, I turned away...you came up behind me and rested your hands on my shoulders...

This is one of me, today as our car turned into your lane. Look, you can see my muscles tightening, my eyes almost hopeful...but then we turned another way...

I'd love to hold onto you forever, I doubt that's the best I can do. I'll just keep a few of these...the one I took of the scar on your chin, this one of you trying to manually restart the bike...oh and please can I keep the one of you making my bed for me when I was sick?