Silence.

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Some days i find myself thinking of him. 

Not his fingers, or eyes, or hair, no. 

His silences. 

I mean, I think too much but I think too little and I think about things I really shouldn’t, and I want to stop, but,

Some things grow on you like a language,

And languages, he said, 

Can never be unlearned. 

So I think of his silences, they

Remind me of the empty space under the arc of a rainbow. 

His silences were like telephone static, only you hear telephone static with your ears;

I heard his silences with the skin on the inside of my wrists. 

I’ve never heard a silence quite as loud as the one he 

Ever so gently

Filled in my lungs and 

When I wanted to tell him 

That i needed him, or

That i needed him, or

That i needed him, i

Only managed to breathe

And he smiled,

Because he knew i now speak in silence too.

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Forgetting.

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To You, 

My chosen one, mi eterna primavera, my sin. 

I wish I had the patience to turn you into a poem. 

I wish you could just stay still as I tried to remember how you looked under this pale blue sky; how your voice still found its way to me through the chaos of that marketplace, through the shrieks of babies and the cuss words of shopkeepers. I wish we had more time, more memories. I feel bad that I have only so many days to miss, only so many kisses to try to feel against my lips again. Some days, I just wish you could have held us together with your lies a little longer. Now you see, I’m tugging at the edges of my dress nervously. I don’t know how to say ‘Hello’ anymore, I just stick to smiling politely, coldly. But not cold enough for anyone to see the broken heart inside, or the absence of it. 

I know for a fact that you wake up in the middle of the night after a disturbing nightmare, a little before I decide to switch off the light and try to fall asleep. In those few minutes that we share our consciousness, I know you sigh my name and I’m here, on what feels like the other end of the world, taking a deep breath and counting the colours in your eyes on my fingers. I wish you’d never have loved me, and I wish I wasn’t so lost in my imagination that I never knew what reality felt like. I wish you didn’t know how to weave fiction like a fairytale, and I wish I had never let you read me your stories to sleep. 

Loving you wasn’t hard, I still feel like I’m back home when I try to listen to you speak in my head; and loving you didn’t drive me insane, I definitely don’t smile at inanimate objects. 

Loving you was just different and I’ll never know how, and so I wish I could have loved you a little more, just long enough to know the bones under your skin and how they held you without failing; just long enough to learn from them. 

Take care, you. 

You’re spring, you will never wither. I’m autumn, I will never bloom.


Yellow.

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You say yellow, you say sunshine; and frames from Bollywood movies. You say ‘I Love You’, you say it like you mean it. You say yellow, you say stay. You say paint me, paint us, you say come let’s take a nap. You say yellow, you say cold flames, you say flowers. You say yellow, I say stop. I say poison. I say ‘I Love You’, I say let me kill myself. 


Wake up before the sunrays reach your skin,

And I know, I know you’re here.

Keep playing with these matches, 

There’s not a lot of time left before

We turn into ashes. Wake up. 

You know, the sound of your tears as they

Trail down your cheeks, they remind me how

Our angels get drunk too, and they paint the sky

In shades of tequila. Look at me. 

Look at me, I’m shifting silhouettes for you.

Inhaling poison, grainy smoke, so much chaos.

Can you hear this thunder, hear it roar under my quivering lips?

Can you break away from your toxic stupor, just to watch me?

Watch me fall from grace. These walls, look,

These walls that surround you aren’t white anymore, they aren’t white anymore. 

Can you feel me die? Can you touch me?

I’m a feather. Wake up. Look at me. 

I’m a feather, I’m flying. 

I’m a feather, I’m still breathing.

Almost. 

Memory.

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I have memorized the bends of your body,

Like a prayer, I have the sound of your name

Nestled carefully in my ribcage, and so

Every time I need air; or the lack of it,

I put my hand down my windpipe and pluck you out

Syllable by syllable, mixing you with blood

And tears, and blue paint. 

When I try to sleep I feel your hands

On my body

Moving carelessly from the nape of my neck to my thigh,

Marking your territory. And some days, 

I wake up under unfamiliar chalk white sheets.

And some nights, 

I sober down to find lips against my lips tracing outlines on my loneliness. 

So I politely excuse myself, and run 

Back into the abyss that surrounds me like an eternal winter.

I have you saved like half a tablet,

The one I crush with the back of a spoon, neatly drawing lines

And then messing them up with my fidgeting hands. 

I wish I knew why I needed you. 

I wish there was a way to stop. 

Rewind. 

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There’s a part of me tracing back memories, I 

Feel this heaviness in my chest; the weight of your promises on a frail, little heart. 

I love you backwards, from the 

Last day to the first. 

This way I know your favourite song before I know your name, 

Loving you backwards comes easy. 

I watch you fall asleep and then wake up into the dead of the night. 

We run towards each other, not away. 

I love you backwards because you confuse me otherwise. 

This way, I don’t write strange words on strange hearts after you go; all my misery comes before you do. 

This way, it’s a happy ending to a terrible start.  

I talk to empty rooms for days till you finally appear. 

Loving you backwards reminds me of how much I hate kissing hungrily; and this way our last kiss becomes a stoned blur and our first a heavily engraved memory. 

This way I know the sound of you saying ‘I Love You’ before you say ‘we’re not meant to be’. This way, it doesn’t hurt. 

Loving you backwards makes me want to love you more, makes me want to roll your silences and singular syllables and smoke them away into a misty morning. 

Loving you backwards, is like writing a poem to my past.

You see, loving you backwards is my answer to the void. It is all of my stupid theories about infinity burned to ashes. 

It’s my way of making this goodbye stop hurting. 

Loving you backwards is like drowning. I’ve heard the death is euphoric.

After you. 

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slow.

i feel a red curtain fall infront of my eyes; the unholy sight of your back, you move farther away, away, away, till you’re nothing but a little dot on the skyscape, almost invisible but eclipsing the sunrise.

blue.

i turn up the volume and try to scream along to a long forgotten song. all i manage to do is say out your name in a faint whisper. i say it again, and again, till my tongue feels numb. i say it, i say it to bring you back to me.

sour. 
i redecorate my wall, rearrange my bookshelf, make my seventh cup of tea and throw it down the drain. i light the stove up to make the eighth, hoping this time i am not reminded of your laughter at my failed attempts of hosting a guest. 

blind. 

i walk up to your house and return without knocking on the door. i wait, and breathe, and choke myself on traces of your being. search my skin for your fingerprints. i ask you why, you say nothing.

 – 

i stare into the horizon, i whisper your name again, i make another cup of tea, i tell you that i want to see you again. i tell you how we can’t leave each other just yet. 

you tell me the only thing people are good at, is leaving.

Bright blue train

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A train, you know, bright blue, not very new,

But the brightest shade of blue you can mix up in your palette.
Moving.
Rusty brake shoes, screeching tyres,
But moving. Always.

More often than not,
Greeted by empty platforms,
Or angry faces
“Could you for once be a little ahead of time”,
Bright blue train,
Empty platforms.

Halting.
Half-heartedly, abruptly,
“Make it happen so quick so i don’t feel it at all”,
But halting, always,
Right place, right time.

It’s not nice
Being at empty platforms.

It’s not nice
Being empty.

It’s not nice
Being.