Of late, thinking a lot about you. And us. The factor of me, ever changing, never changing, goes and comes by. You, the constant.
Leaving our legacy to the old ourselves; what are we? The bloody tumbledown semi-derelict cottage at Yorkshire, or the Plutonian cell of Azkaban, war veterans, misunderstood lovers, losing everything? The pain lurks behind, following like a shadow, everywhere. The song of forlorn years, of a sad afternoon and graveyards, the dusk spreading over the lonesome sky, chasing the sanity down the weary street, metaphors and oxymorons — because we’ve been hiding tears under smiles, cracks under the brightest of sparks, excelling and tumbling down, because some people have rebellion running through their bloods and veins, the iron sings the song of mutiny, and a prayer of the lover —- run, run, run; lead a fucking war, fly a bike, argue with me and then snog me senseless, punch a wall, chug firewhiskey and drown the pain, do whatever the fuck you want to, just… just don’t die.
I forgot, the War is over. So is our youth. Middle aged war torn veterans, Order of Merlin, mistrusted lovers. broken. Broken.
All I want for the rest of my Christmases is you.
Misunderstood lovers. The disowned heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Blacks. A poor werewolf. Rebel and Monster. Our could have-beens and have-hads, a rambling conversation of rampant fate like a feverish hymn, is repeated all over again. I have you back. To myself, probably. My life’s been a relentless pursuit of hamartia, shattering everytime, turning my world upside down in few seconds; remember the night Peter betrayed us? And I wanted you to be the last Marauder, I wanted to die, but never enough because secretly, I wished to see you again. I wanted to hate you, drown my feelings in the strong inebriation of firewhiskey, but never enough, because I knew that I would never be able to unlove Sirius Black. Our norms of love lent itself to both comedy and tragedy and us. So here we are, inhaling and exhaling deeply, making ourselves believe that dying is as easy as War, and so is surviving, living. We’re alive.
We loved in the time of War. We loved and laughed and cried and lied and died; the sunflower you gave me back in Sixth Year has shed its color, mourning for you and for me and for everything, everyone we have lost. Stupid Pathetic Fallacy, Nature empathizing with humans, losing and gaining its beauty.
These days, I think a lot about you. After all these years of our chaotic and passionate togetherness, loving and lusting after each other, crying and screaming, laughing and kissing, we have learned how to touch each other through the empty spaces, and I want you so much that it overwhelms me. Your hands in my hands, entwined, as the sun slips down the busy street of Diagon Alley, the last trace of the sun leaving its quondam morsel in your gray eyes, your name on my lips like a prayer —- SiriusSiriusSirius, like my life depends on it, and you, smiling — I would live a thousand lives just to see you smiling. (God, I sound so hopelessly romantic, don’t I? I feel nineteen all over again.)
Sirius, it’s been some twenty long years, and everytime I lose a bit of myself I go to find you, because I know, I always know that you’re holding me inside, closer to yourself with every passing moment, kneeling down beside me and mending me, mending us together. Because you’re home.
Never let me go again. Never let me go.
Nisarga Sinha is an amateur poet from India. She writes because sometimes thoughts can be suffocating and little things intrigue her. When she is not writing, she is reading fanfictions or pretending to sleep while she clearly can’t and daydreaming. Her poems have been published on Marías at Sampaguitas. You can find her on Twitter as @nisarga_sinha.