I want to colour the skies and drown in the blue
I want to write poetry and read it for you
I want my hairs to fall on your face as we lie down smoking the last cigarette, laughing at our silly stories,
The old staircase at my home leading to the terrace,
I want to keep small pots which bloom jasmines in the hot summer nights.
The small diary which I hide in my drawer.
I want someone to read it one day.
I want you to know me..
Like no one has know ever.

I laugh like a lunatic, and cry like one too..
I wish to paint myself with colours unknown and become an art myself because people like me should come with a caution..
As I am the untamed storm and I would destroy you in the most beautiful  way possible..

(1)

I'm disturbed and yet deeply
comforted by my disturbed nature
I'm comforted because my darkness
envelops me-
it may be cold to the touch
rigid and upright
not soft and loving
but it's loyal
it never leaves.

Today, I'm driving
window down to help me breathe
I capture cold air in my wind pipe
I smell November winter air
smoke from chimneys rising-
when I breathe out I'm smoking too
warm air penetrating cold air
I smell November winter air
we're still in October
it's too early for these memories
I'm unprepared- it's too early.

Sat next to me she appears-
a paler, younger, thinner self
a self I'm sure has passed on
to another life
if it haunted me we'd call her a ghost
but she comforts me
shall we call her an imaginary friend?

"You look terrible!" I state wilfully.

(2)

She's dressed in a thousand layers
"You still feel the cold, eh!" I say
She winks, staying aloof
from any possible conversation
I take a tone of similar indifference.

There she is barely visible
so unafraid of death
arms striped with incisions
a razor blade left behind
hip bones, collar bones, chest bones
she's nothing more
than a white sheath coat
pulled over the skeleton of
a human body
skin screaming for nourishment
to show any signs of life.

If I asked to feel her pulse
there'd be nothing there
no beat
no rhythm
"Maybe it's why the fear of death
has left me!" she commands
"Because in your muffled confusion
your muscles wasting
including your brain-
you mistake yourself for dead." I retort
"You're 21 for Christ's Sake!"

(3)

Distracted by a red traffic light
I turn away-
when I look back, she's gone.

So here I am
talking to myself
the ghost of Christmas past
disappears as soon as my back
is turned.

When I'm alone
the silence
is always louder
than any noise I ever hear-
the silence attracts her back
I reach out to her
trace her face with my finger tips
I whisper: "God Bless,"
knowing some memories are meant
to be laid
to rest.


© Sia Jane


Read on SoundCloud:
https://soundcloud.com/sia-jane-words/winter-air