What about our melody?
Do you remember,
How it goes?
Do you know your way
Back to it?
Back to where we got stuck,
Back to me.
Will you be back for beginnings?
I’ve asked time to wait.
Hearts to be patient.
Pain to evanesce.
For the smile,
You wear in eyes.
For a love,
You weave in silence.
We had serenaded.
In each other’s shade.
I am leagues behind,
In knowing about pits
I am in.
Have always been.
I am within,
It’s mostly dark here,
Because I’m in too deep.
You wouldn’t know.
So I wouldn’t.
Know what you do.
See what you see.
About a person,
Because I’m busy
In being me
I am not you.
I’m busy in my work.
Down here it’s mostly dark.
How do you do it?
Where do you stand
That you praise.
By looking away.
How do I walk
How do I speak
How do I look
Strong or meek
How do I know
What you know.
And don’t tell,
And don’t reach out.
Scrambling in the dark.
That in here, there’s treasure.
That life is happy.
Who between us I trust?
Who knows better, without doubt?
You who don’t know what’s within,
Who can’t ever get out.
There’ll be moments
Waiting for you, telling no one.
To no one
Shall cater the cries,
And the past
Shrieking into the silence
Of broken dreams,
Of broken strings,
Deep into time.
Deep into sands that swallow half-shells,
Half-forgotten and half-alive,
Half-lost in hindsight.
Only to form again
In disjointed halves,
Raising its neck over the coming tide,
Before breaking again
Into a thousand parts,
Into an emptiness that’s cold,
Weeping and wailing,
Dreaming and disappearing.
There’ll be you,
Dreams of you,
Desires and despairs of you,
All that’s launched directionless,
All my heart could manage,
On faraway nights,
On nights long, long back,
That shall one day find their way to you.
All of me will find all of you.
And one day,
You’ll wake in the middle of the night.
(January 2, 2017)
Starry Night Sky and Girl Watercolor – Art Painting Print 8×10 by Heatherlee Chan | Lady
I could tell you stories
About how a world gets buried.
How millions of them get perished
And converted. To one of rubble.
I could tell you stories
Of tears. Losing their worth.
Never given a chance to discover any.
Buried in eyes that aches of loss.
I could tell you stories
About toys. About the smell of childhood
That they carry. That are bargained
To sustain households daily turning more humble.
I could tell you about names.
About a few million tales
Set aside for them, names labelling each,
And each ending midway, each casually slain.
I could tell you about homes,
About the ghosts that haunt them,
About the darkness, despair, and delusions
They go through, inquisitional, as you abandon them.
I could tell you about
That famous winter fair
Of a village that lost all its kids.
I could tell you about
A last leaf, hating its green,
Stretching itself to the wind,
Craving for a cradle, awaiting death’s kiss.
I could tell you about forced endings.
About how certain things simply end.
And ones that don’t, feel stranded.
(December 16, 2016)
It falls out of place perhaps when you have had too much talk with yourself and suffering from a loneliness that can’t be peopled out. It is when thoughts turn into whirlwinds. Some mild, some loud. Some to glorify the essence of life, some enough to consider ending it. Thoughts are a bitch. Guiding everything. If I were inside of my brain, I was sure to throw up. But then, just prior to the point of exhaustion, just before submission and giving in, it all turns beautiful. Just like truth.
They are all around me. They have surrounded my helpless senses under the veil of refining them. They are playing games. They are spineless, little impostors. They are making me talk and walk, love and hate. They compel me to trust them, walk alongside them, ask them of preposterous unearthly favours.
I want her to love me back.
I want myself to be happy.
I want everything fair.
They are not enough to accompany me. They scream when it’s silent around the ears. In tedious, unflinching repetition:
What’s yours must be little, insufficient.
It’s as if I find myself sitting at the centre. Silent in the middle of a throbbing party. There’s music playing. Creating waves, lashing against the walls of dull stony cage. Waters that are warm. Thoughts that can dance.
And then, if not thoughts, what are you left with?
In flashes like those of a lighthouse upon a bleak expanse of waters, before the silent awake soul, it suddenly bemuses you by being beautiful. By glowing in a fearful radiance. Like it’s all true! Like one too can make an eternal party! Like the tears of happiness and sorrow, they all count (even the ones swallowed down)! Like the world is a faraway place, made of stone and wood with Life filling its holes, emanating a fragrance. Where nothing must make sense for everything to be of sense.
And we must be lonely.
ORIGINAL ARTWORK // Thoughts Leafing // 40 by dirissigmundsdottir
Silences wait to be heard. To be read. To be plunged into, to get wet. They remain, and they appear. They change mundaneness into longings. Longings of reciprocation, of language, of an embrace just meant for you. You would find compositions in the air, in the fluttering breeze, conspiring to keep you awake to the magic and warm in the night. It is as if the day’s passengers have used up their space and passed by, leaving stories that haunt you, sounds that whisper to you, an existence that persists, as ripples left by an evening boat in the ocean that last the entire night.
Everything around, bathed in whitish celestial sacredness, stooped and sat in silent meditation, emanating communally a silence, ceremonious in parts, imperceptible by urban light in others. Trees, fences, mildly trembling waters, and roads writing the history of its dust. They all seemed touched upon by a higher sense of purpose, each dedicated in isolation, towards a common goal. The beauty of the night remains to be written. The composition must be perfect.
In the market, after years you appeared,
I saw your lips, moist, trembling, distressed,
We both had stuff for our respective children, to take home,
The touch of warm honey christened my soul,
Your meat was still cold.
Sometimes, I just forget to love people. They ride upon a moment and appear, and like the moments, I let them go. It’s like the task feels so difficult at times. They rush in too fast, wait for no permission, smile past, breeze past, like that dialogue from a movie in a theatre you couldn’t pause at and savour.
In hindsight, you fall in love with their memories. You smile back. A little late. A point in time a little distant. In a space where desolation has slowly but inevitably grown around you. Into you. Staring steadfast. And you let the tiny countless lights of regret blink on, like the ritual of festivity in a city of love. It is all so inevitable. Like every trinket of failure in life, we fail in life to emanate just enough love.
We fail to love more times than we manage to fall in love. Then we forget when.
And then after months of separation, sometimes starkly felt and sometimes just indifferently fleeting, there we were, as if waking from a long sleep, again, back together in a room. About two yards apart. The view my location allowed made the tip of her nose look fairer. It marked the beginning of minutes held together by strong impulsive emotions, washing up the crookedness of a few dry waiting arid valleys. The nose shone in white and made way to the curve of the cheeks to its left, made profound by the bulge of the round cheekbones. One eye was visible, blinking now and then, attentively focused on the lecturer in front, adding a curious aloofness to the fairness of the face, its glowing tenderness, and the radiation of a half-baked charm. A beauty that takes its time to sink in you, slowly and slowly, allowing the leisure of details, yet confident of devouring victory. With its soft roundish curve, the nose ends to form the smooth whitish space that rides a sharp slope towards the dip of the lips. Pink, bright, bold with a natural tinge of rouge. The imagination of which sets you wild. I closed my eyes and released my breath. Flushed with warmth and its soothing rage, I noticed it all together, the singular eye, the left of the nose, its fairest tip, the tender cheeks and the unsettling, pursed, slightly moving lips, all taking a hide now and then behind a few lingering strands of black-brown hair, the fan overhead making them rapidly sway, as if nervous to decide on their best positions beside the face. In all their years of service, they know, beauty rests all on their performance. Obliging with the slightly-tilted neck and gravity, the hairs on the left chose to hang loose, ending just beneath the neck, hiding most of it, before the beginning of the arched back. From time to time, parts of the guarded neck showed in whimsical glimpses, fair and curvy, yearning for the feel of warm fingers, disturbing its warm covering, gently, slowly, repeating, lasting a forever. You’d then take your eyes gradually over the curve of the shoulder covered by the short feminine sleeve of her white cotton top, and find again her skin, bare, embellishing her arm, running all the way down to the fingers, smooth, the upper part fairer due to longer sleeves worn in the past than the bottom. The naïve pull of the tender skin, my eyes that have traveled and touched, my heart that resounded in deep distinct beats, a feeling that was rising and deepening like the ticking of watch. The simple bodily beauty, bereft of and beneath the fabrics, forming a piece in whole, thronging for touch, my eyes that have memorized that, my heart that beats fast. In the space between us was nothingness, empty space and no abstract existence; just my being overcome by flames of longing and hers, sitting quiet, unawares. Two worlds, disturbed and calm, two yards apart.
July 26, 2016
Image Source: www.india-forums.com