My appetite for petty words had died few years ago, when rose colored glasses were trending and reality was a highway taken by few. Since then, half written love letters lay naked on the table, covered in dust bites, a courtesy of time.
Phrases and their meanings have become a conspiracy theory, waiting to be unraveled and consumed. My forks and knives had started to rust; if not for those cooked verses, I'd have starved.
I have dishonest tales, bound in time, lying around somewhere in my mind's shore. The clock is ticking, tauntingly, as I stare at my wrinkled hands desperate to feel the petite pen's warmth. Sheets are smooth as sand, and the words are crashing like lonely waves coming home.
I've often wished to be a muse, carved into his poetry. A sonnet perhaps, reflected in perfect symmetry of phrases and rhymes.
His muscular hands caressing my cheek softly and the ink falling in cascades on the fair skinned parchment. His thumbs trace the outline of my lips and the pen etches aching sighs. His name rolls down my tongue, stealthily. He murmurs kisses along my neck and quickens the pace of his words alike my erratic heartbeats. Fire breathes beneath my skin, and his hands bend it into passion betwixt his words.
I've ventured beyond a poetry now, he says. He calls me a masterpiece like none, entrapped forever in his heart.
My mother had a vanity case full of popping cherries and firework shades. I was afraid of their roars, yet curious sometimes how they were so bold. Before I learnt to speak, I was taught to put finger on my lips, to keep my tongue locked in like the protests hidden in her vanity case.
I grew up afraid of red the most. But it was everywhere I looked; the blood I spilled from biting too hard, keeping the cage closed to the first horror of my period I trudged from, not knowing that it was something so wrong, something so scandalous.
I was taught how to be a woman, painted in sombre browns to blend well with the background. They told me red was for those with deformed thoughts of love and freedom, that red was a curse raging from ages.
I opened the vanity case again that night, and they breathed a sigh of relief. Surprised yet delighted they told me tale of how patriarchy steals colours like the Grinch stole Christmas, that they couldn't steal the red flowing in me so they took away my screams.
I shed subservience of centuries old that night, and woke up a woman, redefined. I proudly wore red, not an act of defiance but an act of acceptance. I became me the next day, a woman bleeding consciousness and power.
Was it the cold winter Cafe, where your eyes followed my rants on the beats of your fingers tapping the edge of a coffee cup Or the warmer kitchen corner, where veins on your wrist setting trails to your chest carved love poems along the way I read like the one fiddling her fingers on brail, where did I fall in love ?
Was it the daisies bathed in morning dew you settled behind my ear Or the apricot evening skies where your perfect hazel eyes were absorbed in musings I wished to hear, when did I fall in love ?
Now the cup laid tilted on the bed with coffee half dried, making its way to the soft fabric I touch- -these talented rhymes that resided on your knuckles you engraved in these wrinkled sheets last night looking at you, honey how did I fall in love ?
I have forgotten how to write a poem. How does it begin and end when you are only familiar with the broken part of a story. Find me a word, one that fits so well between the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall. Maybe that's how you start, from the middle, the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments that fell in tune with the wind when you gently opened the windows to welcome the cold. Every other winter before becomes irrelevant; mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin. How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance; and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground, the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay. You sit beside the open window, gazing at the setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep inside your skin. Perhaps that's how it ends, when things that were never meant to stay become a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".
December looks Like shades of tortilla Some like dreams Chalked on nails And some under the Gently used coats And macaroon cardigans Others prancing on the Shaungxi teacups And a few in a walk on hay Around the neighbourhood Some asleep in a Bundled-up-backyard At a local farm Embracing the vibe of friluftsliv Late-night coffee shots On a new beige book And wheat hued Grandma's Knitted turtle-neck sweaters A handful in maize fields The teakwood candles and the Honey lemon strepsils It smells like the Warmth of palms and the Walnut heat under your feet Whipping up a winter feast Mulled wine and Half-baked plum cakes December looks like A living era in sepia Like poetry on dusty leaves And the previous year enigmas Coughing in overstuffed And rusted closets Willow whispers in the wind And the stories of the succeeding Year enveloped in pinecones And brown roses
thoughts. of what i've been doing wasting a life so privileged that i could make scatter plots of all the random things i think of and not join the dots because straight lines through them are misleading and false.
thoughts of my neighbour of the girl i saw at the mall of all the love i let go because my thoughts told me that it'd be funny for love to come easy.
thoughts of you, the wonder of simplicity the fragrance of your touch that i don't remember feeling but thoughts, just thoughts, that institute in my head and race down my spine every time i misprize the power of my thoughts.
thoughts of seclusion, thoughts of approval, thoughts that run parallel but travel in opposite directions centripetal thoughts of radii that only my mind can walk ancillary thoughts opening dimensions in my head, that it is almost impossible for me, to ever visit, the thought, that onset this fire.
yet, overthought thoughts that i cannot get rid of, that i wished had a conclusion, that made me feel less miserable about how shallow my brain is. thoughts of ending.
thoughts of ending. beginning ending again a pendulum of thoughts between right and wrong, a myriad of emotions that somehow fit into these binary values, that side at the opposite ends of this pendulum.
thoughts. thoughts. thoughts that don't make sense, that i cannot make sense of that keep my senses so engaged that there is nothing i can do but think.
thoughts that i think that power my existence, all in my head and fade it in a world that my thoughts claim, doesn't exist.
hazy when it rains i look out of a window stretching my palms towards freedom pretending that there is more to this world while a subdued part of me wonders what more can i ever see through the only window i am allowed to keep
fuzzy when it's cold my window is frosted with facades and faint cries of everything that is protecting me from what lives outside my room that my crutches cannot distinguish with two clicks on the ground on the other side of the only window i am allowed to keep
bright in summer, i feel heat i try to look outside but my eyes betray me as i fail to make sense of the beauty that i've only drawn in pictures that are now paper planes, flying i scratch the window, try to break through for myself a view that is for once not adulterated with the descriptions from the eyes of everyone else who's been luckier than me to see the world, unfiltered but what view do i see when my eyes physically prevent me from distinguishing between sky blue and tree green as i sit behind a dead black screen realising, that to me, the world shall always look alike, through whatever window i'm allowed to keep.