Your Wedding

On your wedding day, the chandelier in the room throws ninety nine reflections of you smiling when I glance at it. I’ll always remember this. You do not look exhausted when you smile; so you chose the right man indeed. I like him, he has a kind face. When our eyes meet, I ask you everything about the day from across the room. Are you tired? That outfit is beautiful, but aren’t you feeling hot in it? Were you really expecting me to bring someone as my date? Have you eaten anything? Why is your father so quiet? Words, when they aren’t spoken, travel faster l‘ve realised. There’s a sense of pride blossoming in my ribcage; it’s for all the places you’ve come from without burning them down. You once told me that being dramatic isn’t something I should be famous for, and I understand it now.
My friend, you who knows me better than my silence does- I’m sorry for the distance I put between us without telling you how to measure it on the map. You still found your way through even though I had promised that you’d find a stranger in me. A person who has a history of ruining good things single handedly. Now, as I sit alone in this room with hardly anyone else recognising me, I realise that it doesn’t matter. This happiness is alien, unexpected, and I want nothing more than to make you realise that it’s all for you.

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Why

Two feet.

The last time we parted,

I could feel your scent

Linger in a periphery of two feet.
Two feet, you say is measurable,
One plus one is two
And I nod
in approval of a logic,
that is brave enough to study us while we’re apart.

Two feet, cold feet, numb feet, trembling feet, Repeat, no.

You said you were tired
of going through the same process
over and again.
Retreat.
Retreat.
Retreat.
I stand atop the roof of my house,
The sky is peaceful,
moon clad
Ready to succumb to
What the word ‘entirety’ can encompass. Pointing out,
I stretch my hand
The moon |ooks like it is a little away from the northern star,
You know, like two feet?
Maybe all the entities in this universe, Have an observer
Keen to draw things together.
Why can’t it be you,
When it comes to drawing us ?
Why can’t is be me ?
Why can’t it be ‘we’ ?

When it comes to drawing us?

Purpose

People are trying, they really are. They open their eyes in the morning and close them at night. Some of them don’t open them again the next morning. They are all living their stories and they all want a happy ending and sometimes, their stories find each other and a new story is born. Some, hold hands and cry. Some, cry because they can’t hold hands. They try to understand why they breathe. They fall in love with art. They fall in love, and it becomes art. They tell stories, they make music, theyjust want to be remembered. Most of them love without boundaries, but some of them hate because they need a reason to understand why they are hurting so much. Some, come out on the streets and shout their love to the sky. These people, they are all different. They have different skin color and different names and different religions, but they are all trying. There are 7.6 billion of them and they have just the same amount of reasons to not try anymore. But they don’t stop. Like a choreographed song, they all move together but they don’t know it most of the times. When someone near the ocean hurts, someone in the mountains feels the pain. They don’t like to admit this, because they don’t know why it happens, but they‘re accepting it. And I need you to know that these people, they’re just people and they can’t ever be anything more, but they’re trying. This is their story.

Crave

But you see, the movies and books don’t explain the story of staying in love. Of the several attempts people make to hold on to each other. It’s always the falling in love part which sounds more romantic, more relatable. But when the shared glances fade, the late night texting vanishes and music tastes begin to drift apart, that’s when the actual story starts. As humans, we adjust as quickly to other humans as we get tired of them. It’s our nature. There are rare occasions though when people wake up next to each other and make the choice of 1 more day, 24 more hours, 1,440 more minutes, 86,400 more seconds they’d like to spend together. It’s all numbers. And this is where life, love, and time all collide, this is the part of the story which fascinates me the most. Of people making some choices repeatedly, of the sand in their hourglasses slipping scarily fast, but how they turn it around repeatedly. There used to be a time when people promised ‘forever’ to each other because they thought it belonged to them. But it’s not ours, it never was. We only have a today, and we‘ll only ever have a tomorrow and it’s good enough. So this, l believe, is the absolute poetic truth of humanity that we’re all dying everyday, except for the rare occasions when we choose someone else to die with. That is when we’re truly alive, without feeling the need to tell the rest of the world.

PS: HBD AS

Unknown

I’m afraid of writing these days, it’s always been a way of echoing what my heart says. So what does my heart say? That there are times when I feel that you are waiting for me to exit the picture. That i’m holding you from something much greater, I wish I could give you what you want, that includes my departure as well. However, I want to tell you that I’ve tried. I’ve left way too many times,for both of our good, with a heavy feeling in my chest. I had to come back upon realising that l was missing something; my heart. It’s funny, I suppose. I feel it, like an extension when it’s with you. | feel it despite it not belonging or being with me. The sensation of feeling something i can’t see but can undoubtedly understand, as if I was born to feel this way. Ifind it funny,l had predicted this while hoping it wouldn’t be so, all this while now. Even as I write this, I fail to understand, if I’m still writing about my heart or if I’m writing about you.

Confessions

I’m afraid of writing these days, it’s always been a way of echoing what my heart says. So what does my heart say? That there are times when i feel that you are waiting for me to exit the picture. That I’m holding you from something much greater, | wish I could give you what you want, that includes my departure as well. However, I want to tell you that I’ve tried. I’ve left way too many times, for both of our good, with a heavy feeling in my chest. I had to come back upon realising that I was missing something; my heart. It’s funny, I suppose. I feel it, like an extension when it’s with you. I feel it despite it not belonging or being with me. The sensation of feeling something I can’t see but can undoubtedly understand, as if I was born to feel this way. l find it funny, I had predicted this while hoping it wouldn’t be so, all this while now. Even as I write this, I fail to understand, if I’m still writing about my heart or if I’m writing about you.

Crossroads

For the days when I don’t know what, who, where, why and how I am; for the days when my answer is as awkward as my eye contact. This is for the confusion which isn’t really confusion but depression trying really hard to enter a crowded room especially when its late to the party. I know I don’t make sense, but I also know I’m not alone in this, but God do I often wonder if I’m living my days like a man before he catches a terminal disease- all too sure, and then none at all. I’ve been into metaphors for the longest time, but trying to explain what I feel is like a grammatical error trying to seduce literature. I wish I could say I’m sad, but I’m not. Sadness has a catalyst and a solution but my chemistry of isolation has neither. These nights are way too cold and my memory treats me the same way the wind treats my freshly shaved cheek, it cuts me, it cuts me till I no longer know what my whole feels like. There are some people who change the way you look at life and some who change the very life you look at, I’m blind towards both. And at this point, I can only hope to meet someone who lets me borrow their eyes.

Red River

Dedicated to all the strong and beautiful women out there. ( Belated Happy Women’s Day) 

I took the bloodstained sheet

out of the filled bucket

and turned it into a tent

Tonight, in between campfire songs

and toasted marshmallows,

the universe will bleed with them

we will celebrate the wild rivers

overflowing between their legs

and allow them to drown

the neighbouring towns of judgement

mocking the pure, delicateness

of womanhood for years

They shall never have to apologise

for the downpour

nor should they feel ashamed, impure

they shall bleed and bleed and bleed

and teach others

how to spill blood

oh so generously

until the geography of their bodies change

into another set of mountains

and valleys and towns,

the ones that will never learn

how to disrespect

the rivers that carried them to life.

 

 

 

Immeasurable

and one day

you’ll realise

that you need to stop measuring time

lose count

give up on weighing choices

and stop quantifying life

for it’s far too infinitely massive

and beautiful

to be expressed in numbers

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