Psychotic

She stood with her hair undone, long, dark and entangled .

They fell down her dainty shoulders and caressed her waist,

And held still right there, not swaying anymore from left to right,

To match her chirpy gait, her abrupt head movements,

Or the random directions that her sprightly eyes would look at,

In the night sky, on the empty streets, or anywhere at all,

 As if it was a show, of colours and magic, Made only for her eyes to see.

Looking out of the window, she thought, had always been a dull affair

If the front door, or the door through the backyard was open,

And there were nights of eerie silence, when she would run barefooted on the moist lawn, and throw herself on the bed of grasses.

I remember how her eyes lit up, when she’d look at the night sky.

She’d ask me to look up too, I would, and all I would see were some stars.

And I would let her know that, and her eyes would blaze, to the heavens and back to earth where she lay beside me,

And she would close her eyes, and feel the night breeze as if they were star dust falling right down from the cosmos and galaxies,

Only to her, and to her open eyes, It was as if somebody had set the sky on fire.

And then there were times when I would kiss her with open eyes,

To see her at the one genuine time when she liked to keep her eyes tightly shut,

And she looked like she was at peace, for once, and happy.

But as soon as one of us would pull back, her eyes would gleam, and shine,

And , ‘You don’t open your eyes when you kiss’, She would say.

And then we would kiss again,

For when I held her tight, I knew she did sneak a look at me.

I knew it because her lips would curl up into an unintentional smile against my very own,

And I knew, the kind of magic she saw in the ordinary things,

Only they could make her smile.

And she always said, I was magic . I don’t know why my mirror would always beg to differ.

Walking with her, was a menace. She had the pace of a rabbit,

 but when she was slow, she was slower than the earth revolving round the sun.

She danced around the people as  if she were, by word, casting some spell upon them,

And then she would smile, and you couldn’t bet there could be anything wrong.

Airplanes weren’t airplanes, to her eyes they were,

Unidentified Flying Objects, And the jingle in her voice and the glitter in her eyes,

When she would look up and then look at me,

My, were they not enough, to make me believe in everything she was saying for once and for all.

I write this letter to her captives, You cannot hold her in for what you refuse to see,

You cannot convince her that what she believes isn’t true,

For a sane man like me, was willing to question and challenge, and ultimately change my own perception because of the things she made me believe in,

How can you call such a gift, Psychotic?