Melancholy and I crossed ways long time back, I do not remember the place. Nor do I remember the date or the time. But melancholy felt like home, And you know when poets leave their home physically, their mental self is still stuck in frabjous fragrance of their lurky bedroom.
My teenage was spent under the penumbra of melancholy, perhaps my important trait of me back then. I remember the dusk and the dawn when we kissed each other vehemently. We walked down the streets, emptied bottles at the bar. I remember me and melancholy making love under the blanket, and the only witness is my wet pillow which apparently dried before the sun was up. Melancholy was the best company to the tears in my eyes.
But now, that sadness is not prolonged. It visits me as a pesky guest every now and then. We no longer walk down the street nor we empty bottles at the bar. But yes, melancholy is still an important part of me, and I will write about it, always.