I do not know what has made me start writing again. Maybe, the essence of home, the cloudy, humid Kolkata weather, and the distant past in this city makes me a different person.
It is time again, to survive. On this side of the world things happen differently, and I am different too. Why is that? A question I could never answer.
I am not a writer nor a poet. I am just plain human with varied emotions.
I miss him. Not for him, but for myself. I miss the "me" around him. This summer is going to be long, and our moments will be lost, and shall never happen again.He will move on or find a new interest to keep him busy. He is Human, he is needy. However, all that I feel for him would not be lost.
I am Human. I do love.
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