"You look like love,"
she said one night,
cold with the
whispers of winds
on old cobblestone
and hushed
footsteps
of snow-covered
boots.
He stopped
in his tracks,
the cherry of
his cigarette
pulsing
like the colors
of a spinning
satellite
lightyears away
from their newly-found
lives.
"What does love
look like?"
he asked,
syllables hanging
close to his face,
blue eyes
darting
from her lips
to her hands
and back again.
But he knew.
He knew from the first
time he shook her hand
and saw the
sweat glisten off her
brow,
and listened to her
listless stories
of how summer
never truly loved her,
that one day
he truly would.
She smiled,
lips cracking
from the dry air,
"It looks like an
overflowing sink,
fresh with bubbles
from soapy dishwater
left unattended
to waltz in the kitchen.
It looks like ice
cracking
to the sweet smoke
of scotch
and the divot
on the couch that
sinks our thighs
and the thought
of any afternoon plans
deep
in crevasses
we're both too sleepy
to crawl out of.
It looks like all
the things
the world
took from me
and promised
it would never give back,
but instead packaged
in a
candle
bright enough
to illuminate
all the dark places
and remind me
that even though
others have treated me
like a
flicker,
I'm truly a
flame."
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
I don't even care what it says
just as long as it's out of my head
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
My words somehow manage to
wrap themselves in your essence.
I no more wonder why they seem
so beautiful to me. always.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
I've imagined
forever. always
under your veil.
Eternity somewhat
similar to you.
always.
And now. after you.
I have stopped.
talking about them.
-(forever. a myth)
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
We ran in circles,
panting & out of breath,
but never tired,
never giving up.
I try to hunt down
your weakest spot -
an Achilles' heel,
but plumper,
softer...
reserved to be exploited
exclusively by me.
Frantic & slipping
way past the edge of lunacy,
I spear you on repeat.
Plunge on the gore and the mess -
Again.
Again.
Again.
With a borrowed sickle
buried deep somewhere
between you ***** -
we lock horns in agony,
in pleasure & in pain.
But before the fog dissipates,
and the sunlight of reasoning
falls ever so delicately
on our bare backs,
or the tips of our ******* -
I would've devoured you.
Eaten out your heart,
through & through.
Eaten out your parts,
through & through.
Left no stone unturned,
no toe uncurled,
no flesh untouched.
Rising from my slippery temple,
I take time to look at the window crack -
The sunlight is too late,
but why do I care?
Your screams are always on Time.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
Speeding through the broken lights
as the cold winds cut through our lungs,
I press my cheek
hard against your shoulder blade -
your warmth
seeps through your fabric,
and mellows my skin.
The October wind
sweeps past my papery strands,
the translucent beams of the Dusk
dances against our backs
like pretty little Ballerina toes
intent on performing a masterpiece.
My bruises peek out
to greet the phosphorent concert,
and recite their greetings
to the chilly October winds.
Those lovingly carved half moons
tingle in fond reminiscence,
of a fleeting moment that
somehow fails to flee all the same -
Never managing to abandon
our trail of thoughts.
The sky looks down at us,
and adores my day-old hickies
deciding to play along -
She adorns a forgotten shade of
Purple.
The colour of Pride.
The colour of a sated Heart.
Soon it changes
into a powdery Blue,
and so does my mood,
as I walk towards home
leaving a Home behind -
staring at me
with fidgety fingers
and longing eyes.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
Just finished filling up
a KYC form for my mother,
and as I mechanically
filled in the details,
mum nudged I had forgotten
to write
"Late"
before my grandmother's beautiful,
beautiful name.
It teared me up.
It always will.
I looked up at my mother,
and I realised that someday,
I will be adding the same prefix
before her name too.
And let me tell you -
even if
Death is inevitable,
Death is never fair.
Especially when it makes
an entry too late -
Too late until
Life has already
played out her magic.
Her filthy,
crooked magic of
Attachment.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
If all he has to talk,
is about how creamy your thighs are,
but seldom has a word or two
dedicated to your smile -
is he even writing for you?
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
I stared at the haunted castle, blood red & abandoned by mortals, the cursed colour falling off in mortared chunks, revealing a dead gray beneath the lively crimson.
A double-bricked mansion no longer used by the government, but still adds charm to the endless garden, untended & overgrown.
I stare back at my grandmother, sitting by the mansion stairs, greedily dunking a large chunk of bread in her thermos cup that swirled with piping hot tea, its steam circling her golden mane under the 7 am sun.
She breaks off another humongous chunk, and wiggles her finger at me. I sit beside her as she shoves a soggy tea-soaked bread inside my mouth, as the Bengali track-clad uncles stare at us with knowing smiles.
The fishermen call for their wives behind us, as they speed down the slippery stairs of the Ghat with wicker baskets.The kids dive inside the murky water **** naked, racing towards the boat, slicing through the waters in a frenzy.
I wait for my grandmother to resume our morning walk but she finds a cemented bench under the Peepal shade and lies down. I remember the instructions my mother sent me with - to make her walk like the doctor said.
But I dive in, lodging myself within the crook of her arms as she sleeps, finding my place like I always do. The thermos is empty, but our stomachs are full. Two clumsily torn packets of sweet bread get swept away with the dried leaves as I watch the sunlight play along with the canopies. And we both conspire about how we will boast to my mother about the long routes we took during our walks. And the new exercises we tried.
Nonetheless, she doesn't move a joint, and I don't know about a single exercise routine yet. But I'm in her arms, and it's a good day.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
If I master
the Art of enjoying Solitude,
I'm afraid I'll settle for it.
©hecayte
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC