flush

What if, we forget the baggage.
Forget the floods.
Forget the stairs.
Forget the silent accusations. And the loud ones.
Forget the open window that used to let the rain in.
Forget the half-complaints. And the insecurities.
Forget the loud, echoing laughter, every 21 seconds.
Forget the lamp with the face on it.
Forget the trembling hands that ruined that shot.
Forget the millions of shared cigarettes.
Forget being pressurised.
Forget the mobile ring tones.
Forget the first conversation.
Forget micro-emotions.
Forget the bad hair days. Or the 35 minute morning regime that follows.
Forget the lyrics.
Forget the nicknames.
Forget the cooking.
Forget the anklets.
Forget the still, half-read Marquez.
Forget the carefully maintained soft board.
Forget the tear stained afternoon after Cinema Paradiso.
Forget the first photograph in Goa.
Forget the shouting eyes.
Forget what people said.
Forget the badly made ginger tea.
Forget the muted whispers over a long distance call.
Forget Bill Watterson.
Forget the t-shirt.
Forget the lies. Forget the truth.
Forget contentment.
Forget the marathon with bare feet.
Forget the unanswered mails.
Forget the jokes. Or the faces that came with it.
Forget existentialism.
Forget the red and black raincoat.
Forget the love. Forget the blind hate.
Forget the first time. Forget the last time.

What if we forget everything. And meet for a cup of coffee.