I’ve known you since the time you dwelled in the poetry of my words written in sleepy afternoons beside an open window with rusty horizontal grills. I felt your strokes whenever I dreamt of owls swinging on overhead electric cables in the ailing sleepnesses of childhood imaginings. I had unknowingly searched for you in the violet sky of all my growing up kalboishakis, staring at the many a shapeless forms of you floating above, too near and too familiar to take a second look. I always knew you were near in the several pubescent monsoons when I locked myself alone in the balcony and smiled and anticipated audaciously of the similarly tumultuous thousands of adult monsoons which were to come. I did see you in the hundred and one nights I stood by myself looking at the midnight sky. I couldn’t tame the ruby sky nor could I possess the satin you then… but, I still knew, you were there. Right? You were mine even then? Right? Even if I turn into myths and ashes tonight, you will still choose to remain mine. Right?