we are two skeletons but one soul
bound together by shared affection and nothing more
your lines are traced with powdery debris
you assume clean in the light, yet
do not deign to erase in the dark
and mine are equally messy despite
when we walk alongside each other
your face buzzes into a blur against grey
i do not understand you
cannot understand you
do not want to understand you
instead, i try to pull you into my familiar screen of black and white
and you show me the rough edges of the grass blades across your skin
carving scars you cannot easily heal
these hurt me the same way it does you
but sometimes i forget that what i know
is ultimately not what it actually is
you are fleeting
i’m fleeting
(if only we could be fleeting in the same way
in the same direction
that could stand us still)
if only you knew i’m looking at you
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 5:20 AM UTC
this is a story about a candy store in winter
it stands lonely amongst popular, inhibitory acquaintances, trembling for any attention at all; its windows subtle mirrors to the scarves that float by, door softened by the touch of shivering palms, and desserts staining the bitter tongues of jilted lovers. a beige sweater sits on a high wooden stool behind the counter, jadedly, haphazardly, looking up from a rectangle of light to squint only at wisps of ice from the outside. little and big coats alike peer in eagerly to the picture of shelves lined with bags of brown, white, dust... friendship, gluttony, regret
today, you and your accompanying jacket defy the still air to step into the store. it is winter in a town built with unfamiliar corners and made jagged by cobblestones. you pull its stiff sleeves around the crooks and crannies of this place you do not know. look, you say, look at all the candy i’m going to buy. there is nary another in sight, and so in the anonymity the moment provides, it reciprocates to your genuine devotion, lays its calloused hand around your waist, pulls you within the space that exists between its heart and yours. its touch is chilly against your insulated skin, but you do not care. instead you relish in its fleeting affection, amble around like it is normal. you think, you are normal, we are normal, and then it exclaims, look at the candy i’m holding
laughter seeps from the knitting of the beige sweater, and amidst all the sweets, you think you are the one filled with the most amount of sugar
moments later, you place the bags of brown, white, dust on the counter; on its tongue, a crystallised candy from the basket. deft fingers turn your gifts into tan pouches and similar ribbons, its red lips asking in return, where is the factory from which your sweetness was made? at the question, the jacket’s touch freezes in the heat, leaves the small of your back and reinstates the space between, leaves the premises entirely to your own conviction. you then remember the memory of the army green garment walking on as you passed this candy store. perhaps it was yesterday, or perhaps it was years ago in your dreams. it is lonely, yet unlike you, it does not drown in the hope of something warmer than the pieces that visit
you remember that same image twice, thrice, many times. your surroundings have turned into an empty street—the smell of cocoa, and dim, yellow lights absent. you are standing alone in the middle of winter with sweets in hand, and the thrift shop jacket peppering the concrete in front of you with its indifferent threads of snow. chocolate is soft and melts easily despite the cold, but all you feel now is the bitterness of the bar that lies abandoned on the shelf, kept away from others like a ***** secret, paper cuts from the brown paper bag of the candy store
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 5:16 AM UTC
i once knew a man with whom i shared many firsts
spheres aligned, hours mundane, endeavours delicate
and now he is merely a passer-by whose face i've nursed in private over the years
inaccurately
slowly
expiring
there is a certain irony to terrains less explored
i hear the light voices, speaking of plainness
quiet
escape
yet amidst all these noise, we are the lonely ones
we are lonely in caution, in responsibility, in abandonment
in incapacity to do just the same
when you've been there
and i've always been here
our hearts are no longer made of the same stone
our bodies might intertwine under the sheets
but our avenues beyond your doors will never be bridged
how utterly melancholic that is
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 5:14 AM UTC
you are the cigarette i pull out of the box every other evening
after fourty-six and five thousand strides, three underpasses
and one last pedestrian crossing
as with the cigarette, i look forward to you, look forward to
the high derived from the very presence of you
of your enigmatic entity misting through my lungs like
a sick, heady liaison akin to that of beer and smoke
but as with it which stubs out before the junction of bartley
relinquishes within me a curt perspiration, a heightened vision
you ravel my walk, desiccate my lips, augment a melancholy
that after muddy fields and an overhead bridge
initiates yet another discretion away from blurry headlights
as with the two sticks, tuesday and friday
five~, but only in selected amity
you leave traces of tobacco and filter paper
grinding between my newly dentalised set
as the zephyrs of the monsoon season **** against the spark
the bitter aftertaste of something so wrong, accompanied by
the warmth in cold of something so right
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
because you were young i didn't care
i grabbed your face, showed your place
i could have grabbed your stray tongue too
i ruffled your hair, patted your back as the
vices ran loose from your soul, and with words
promised only what an older sister could
but in the midst of the night you were the body
i found myself weaved around with
until like-minded fellows sit by me in the ride
speaking, and really speaking
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
they told me that mystery is a virtue
that it intrigues and prevails over
dullness in the soul itself
i sigh into the fumes of my cup
caress a petal on the withering china
say, oh well i'm an open book
and an open book can't be closed
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
so tell me, tell me about
all the girls you've been with
are they fun, do they whine
have they seen your daze
after a long bottle of wine
can they swim, shall they cling
will they stroke your hair
when you are grim
then i will tell you about
your friend i like
he is cute, he pursues
but all i am haunted by
is your torn suit
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
i adore it
the way you grab me
by my chin
start an entanglement
you want to prolong
like forever
i adore you
but i do not 'like' you
i'm merely attached to
your arms
your wandering palms
your lips, and
the melting *** of cigarette smoke
with your natural scent
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
treat it as goodbye
goodbye to silly pipe dreams
goodbye to new-fangled beginnings
goodbye to what could have been
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
little girl, you better hold on
hold on tight to the charcoal
sturdiness of a railing, to the
warmth emitting from the
barrier of your father's arm, for
the bus would bring you there
once, twice, a hundred times
to the first turbulence of a
flight you are onboard from the
very start, and like that tedious
twenty-two hours to america
like the cousins who followed
the eldest, coolest brother up
hanging on an escalator track
turbulences come one, another
until the odyssey sews to a close
along with your shredded dreams
your corrupted perceptions, your
wrinkles, your bruised, weary heart
which would thus lay within your
burnt, soulless corpse
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC