She’s got this picture imprinted on the membranes at the back of her eyes, retina, or whatever they’re called. It’s there, even when she sleeps. An image of his smile. Not just any random one though, a person has a whole myriad of different smiles. But that one particular positioning of facial muscles, sometimes when he looks at her, that  makes his whole face light up and his eyes twinkle. It’s the twinkling that clinched the deal, she thinks. And then her heart just melts, melts, melts. Who cares about those polar caps? There’s a much more urgent problem right here. One without a solution.


She looks up to that green canopy of the huge magnolia tree in the park, with its pristine, fragrant white flowers. That image drifts in. Yet again. One of her most favourite songs came to mind, the one Norah Jones sang in F-major but she had to transcribe into C-major to suit her voice. The one that was so aptly named — the three words that sums up all her thoughts at the moment –“Shoot the moon”.

Will you think of times you’ve told me, that you knew the reason why we had to each be lonely — it was just the season.

The season, huh? One way of looking at it, right?

And then she realised, love is a merry-go-round. But one with the “merry” bit chopped off since a time no one can longer remember. Yet it goes on. Circling. Circling. Never arriving.

~“You shoot the moon, and miss completely…”~


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