Hemingway said, ‘stare at something long enough till you can write exactly what you feel.’

And then there were moments when I stared at you, long enough, till you were uncomfortable. But I was only looking at you so that I learn the arcs and lines of your face that had stories one after another.

Like the mole resting perfectly between your eyebrows slightly tilted to the left. The lone stand of hair on your forehead to which I always say ‘can I pull it off?’

The eyes held an ocean of profoundness along with the pain of longing. I have stared at you enough even in those fleeting moments and I have memorized the texture of your skin and the lines of your emotions. I know how you smile, how you frown. I know how your eyes turn moist when you look at me. I know how busily you blink it to dry the ocean of pain within your eyes careful enough not to let the ebbs of tears flow down. I know it all.

I have stared at you long enough so that I engrave you deeply in the depth of my soul.

I stared at you long enough, because I was not done looking at you.

I stared at you long enough because I knew I couldn't look at you forever.

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