I skipped the epilogue calligraphed with heartbreaks with a hope to abort the fetus of departure growing inside my womb, with the will to blindfold my eyes to avoid the glimpse of that cursed gloom . Oh how wrong i was ! I am dweller of Pacific coast of aches how could i escape from tsunamigenic earthquakes of betrayal. I was baptizing our love bookmarking hope inside the pages of arrival of spring, when you were sowing the seeds of sins under the skin of trust , inking your chest with the peonies, poisoned with deception. Oh how stupid i was ! I forgot every spring has its autumn . Pardon me my optimistic glasses often blur the paths of despair without which i am blind corpse under the roof of anxiety.
Things you said under the stars sitting on the grass were the spells you had casted to rupture the ribcage of love while i was searching for a castle for our pledges within the stars and you were longing for another ephemeral setting sun . Oh how pathetic night i was ! I was trying to kiss the burning sun with my frozen lips coating my soul with camphor. Pardon me i begged for enormous universe of warmth to confine it inside the tiny home of my heart.
After long winters your words are still echoing in my ears , your endeavours to choke me on your adieus, concealing the contentment of your ferocious desire still barricading my vision. And I am puffing out pain whispering " ahh this cruel summer." After six summers I am lingering on the sentence " I hope she likes her" , humming and hawing to pronounce the sentence " I do."
THIRTEEN SEASONS OF MY METAPHORS : TERMS AND CONDITIONS MAY APPLY
More often, i would like to be an unforgettable poetry of your hidden diary who neither chews the inglorious dust of summer nor scrutinized by the shuffled snowflakes of winter. But that diary always tugs at those gunshots of last August where your last kiss did smell like the departure and you caged that night's essence within that diary through bloodstains but named them as metaphors.
I would like to be that final essence where those buttercups withered and you were standing alone under a sycamore holding a grey ashtray. And a stray dog was looking at the ashtray wagging his tail , might be looking for some hamburgers. But the ashtray couldn't satisfy the hunger. Still those buttercups did clasp someone's silences and another one's disappointments.
I would like to be that last farewell where your metaphors announced their existence and buttercups went the way all flesh inside the ashtray. I would like to taste those silences, to melt within your warmth and to gnaw someone's coldness. And less often, I'd like to be that coldness where teardrops breathe behind the veil pretty well.
~of knowns, unknowns and silences || bidya
Agnosthesia-(noun) the state of not knowing how you really feel about something
I don't actively miss you, but you do pop up in my head once or twice a day, especially when I am alone, having conversations with myself that I used to have with you.
I have substituted your presence with an entire list - people that take me to my happy place better than you ever could - yet there are times I want those people to melt together and become you, so I can sit down with you once more and laugh.
I don't actively miss you, but a random color or shape sometimes takes me back to arguments had on rooftops where we were closer to the sky, which we sometimes pretended was still water that we just liked to stare at.
I remember when you told me, while gazing at the stars, what life meant to you, and in the same breath, told me he was a boy with black hairs and glittery skin.
I don't actively miss you, but I do pay extra attention when your name comes up in a chat. The faux nonchalance with which I inquire after you is transparent enough to show the tiny space you still hold in my heart.
That place which I try to pretend does not exist because I try to convince myself that I don't love you. Not anymore.
And how could I? Loving you would mean I miss you every second of every day, but I don't.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
--Today, write a poem starting with the phrase "When I am an old woman"--