We had our favorite table by the window,
Wisps of steam rose from my coffee cup;
The discomfort I felt was in the words,
They hung between us and pressed against my shoulders;
She was my best friend,
And this winter afternoon, she'd come to pour sunshine on my fate;
'How long,' she asked, 'will you scribble words on empty evenings?
How long must I watch your dear heart,
Wither in the cold sky like a dry December tree?'

She had friends to set me up on dates,
She'd rather, I scribble random conversations on empty faces,
Because that's all it would be;
On a chill foggy night,
Whoever got warmth from the pale fade of streetlight?
When there was that girl from the dark,
She stormed the late hour's haze like the crackle of bonfire,
And my heart swung (in secret),
To the dance of flames.

Thoughtfully, I stared into deep brown eyes,
The sun streamed in, and dropped crystal pools of highlight;
Dark deeds best stay concealed, the hour spoke wise,
This was my sweet best friend, and I smiled,
She would not approve of my transgressions of night;
But,
If I could just let wisdom rest where wisdom be,
I would tell her of the girl who spoke freedom,
While her hair floated in the breeze.

I thought and I measured,
She pressed and she probed,
Till she called the ****** of this game,
With a rhetorical question -
'I wonder, who will your queen of hearts be?'

The sun wandered into a cloud,
Her crystal eyes playfully turned plain brown;
In this magic minute, I spilled last night's secret in a word -
'You'.

Her eyes glinted. They were dark fire. Her hair, like swirls of night, flowed down her arm. The hint of a smile was the breaking dawn.  

My body shook, breathing ragged. I clenched my fists, fighting desperately against madness. She played. I resisted. My lips pursed.

Three years ago I had lost. That voice, once loud and sharp, had played gentle chords. The memory was a persistent echo. It pierced. The dam was about to burst. Again.

She had become a spell, that time, enveloped me like a mist, lifted me into a fantasy, and let me drop. I crashed like glass on floor.

Not again; but I couldn't. She was magnetic. She was transcendence. My heart surged, like a moth to a flame.

Enough! In two steps, I obliterated the space between us and tore the canvas into half. Then another, and another...

Pieces of paper lay strewn upon the floor. Suddenly I was alone. I gasped. My eyes closed. The pain cut in like a knife.

Part 1: Creation

I am painted mood,
Images from his world, considered in quiet recess,
Excesses discarded,
Soft strokes build shades and highlights,
Punctation measured,
Words dance to rhythm;
I become deep feeling,
When parts become a landscape in verse,
And fuse with light and shadow;
And then, I am floated into real space,
I show, I don't say,
The artist stays silent,
Faceless behind a still curtain.

Part 2: Creator

Who says words are to speak?
Words are wooden puppets,
They are only alive when I dance them to a tune;
They are the outlines of things,
They mean, only when I pour color;
Do you hear the music?
Do your eyes appreciate?
That's all,
I tell nothing - don't wait,
I won't draw the curtain.

And it is only a curtain,
Curious hands will find you a way in,
It is a little dark - evening turning into night,
But here, words speak;
We could talk the night through,
And if we walk long enough,
A hint of morning light might break;
I don't know,
I haven't walked that far for long,
It's too far to walk without conversation.

Blood drops drip from both hands of the clock,
I notice, it's not been moving;
The thin blade edge gleams,
Ready to rip red slashes on a sheet;
Someone will stir for love,
And then bleed slow death tonight.

It could have been sunshine,
A path tumbling along green mountainside,
Or a bird taking flight;
Or, what if, the night was touched by a playful wink of moonlight?

Could I perhaps once be free,
Of the magic that lines my fingertips,
That throws dark clouds upon the morning,
The crash of a landslide down the mountain,
And the wail of hurt into the bird's call?

Could I find, if I tried, a story that ends in clasped hands,
And finding little rooms in each other's eyes?

I notice, the blood clock hasn't moved,
The sound of falling droplets drowns the ifs,
And ticks over time;
I wield my weapon,
And skin gives like butter.

Part 1: The Gift

Everyday had become the same, gray canvas and painted in it,
The inspiration of lifeless eyes in a dead portrait;
In this endless pile of everydays, somewhere I felt the chains fall apart,
Her shadow touched upon the gray, still expressions start to become art.

Long I hadn't turned the way,
The little path gleams, tucked away from familiar sounds and passing cars;
Lost in clever grasses, where a fragrance rests and sunlight falls,
In soft gold streaks, between the trees;
There's magic there,
It lays its silver dust upon the ordinary of passing days.

I was an old Peter Pan,
I'd moved on into the crowd;
But then, from within her deep brown eyes,
I felt a little magic pierce inside;
And before I knew, I watched my concrete world,
Laden with a thin snowfall of silver dust.

There was late an evening at her home,
An open window let in the sky, and between us,
My feelings, unstated, wrapped the quiet like a silken stole;
We listened together, Loreena Mckennit's high-pitched voice sang the dead lover's tune -

"Her eyes grew wide for a moment,
She drew one last deep breath;
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight...
Shattered her breast in the moonlight
And warned him - with her death."

I had felt the song a plenty times,
But I watched it now stream upon her, huddled in a yellow wool jacket,
And drip into her soul, behind closed eyes.

There, as the night raced by, the plan fell upon me like a flash;
It was ten nights to her birthday, February the 7th,
Ten nights I would make her a gift.

Office mornings passed like a dream,
Her hair a cascade, the touch of those eyes -
The excitement of that dark bottle perfume on a moonlit date;
And a bright bulb glowed late hours,
I painted in silence her favorite lines;
One page a night,
Visioning in color, Alfred Noyes' that timeless tale.

The green sketchbook had waited these empty years,
Waited in dust for a spark in dead wires and a deep brown smile;
10 pages of dark and red, and the 11th would be mine,
A rainbow across a clear blue sky,
And below it, my heart poured in two white lines -

"Here's something beautiful to think of. We have a lifetime ahead of us to be by each other's side and chase dreams together."

Part 2: February 6

I woke up early to a broken spell,
The winter sky had faded, my window let in the clear warmth of spring;
10 pages done - today I carried a rainbow heart;
Nerves jangled, and a tear drop rolled,
Alone a witness to a numb vessel's flickering hope.

Like every morning I waited,
Our corner of the cafeteria was bathed in sunshine glow;
Here we shared that one cup of tea, and spilled random conversations,
That I mostly lost in her eyes;
I watched her walk towards me,
Yellow kurta, and the bright morning's charm, caught in a smile.

And then came the blow.

Her words that morning - how could I lose?
Her words that morning fell like ice on the rainbow,
And spread upon the freeze like the veins of a crack.

'I like him,' she said, 'the boy who sits across the room,
I like him, and I haven't told anyone yet,
I thought I'd first trust you.'

I don't know how I held that cup of tea and my eyes stood still,
For I lay before her, shattered on the floor.

A lifetime of repression was rehearsal,
Now was the stage and I played my part;
The trauma of her words seeped into my blood,
It imploded like a black hole inside - no form, no sound, no violence,
Just distilled, irrepressible force;
The pressure screamed, but all outlets held,
A tear touched my eyes, and in two blinks I swallowed it back.

Did she notice? She was endearing, absorbed in the boy,
Who asked her out on her new year night,
To bring in this springing rivulet of joy.

Alone that night, empty the 11th page stared up at me,
I could not think of the rainbow, as I wondered first how does a dead man breathe;
As the dark grew deep, my heart turned into a noose with nails inside,
If I could only paint that instead,
With happiness hung upon it, dripping blood down its still legs.

No!
Somehow, could I finish this rainbow - her rainbow,
If only somehow my hands didn't shake,
And this cry would stop so that I may concentrate;
I looked at my phone, the dreaded clock never stops,
It was 12, and it read, as it were, the 7th of February.

Part 3: The Birthday

She opened the door, bright eyes of delight;
'Happy birthday', and the present I handed her, wrapped in deep yellow gift paper;
'Don't open it now', I whispered, 'you'll never guess'.

I did not stay long, I feigned a sickness,
But as I walked back,
I imagined how she would open the yellow paper, and find that green sketchbook inside.

I knew how her eyes would turn upon the painted lines,
This was not a gift of paintings, she would know -
These were 10 pages of my soul;
And upon the 11th page she would find,
The seven colors of light upon a clear blue morning,
And below it, words painted in white -
"A life I wish you, as bright as the rainbow sky."

Discrete I stare, her eyes are lost in a book,
Upon the curve of her shoulder blade falls gently a thin curtain of night,
And then I escape - it's hard to bear alone what swells in that secret place inside.

Along average conversations, our eyes meet, and again, I let mine rest a fraction long,
That fraction where I see reflections in her deep brown,
And feel alive magic;
They are little windows, these stolen extras, and I enter softly into her soul.

Occasionally, she feels the intruder -
'What happened?' Smiles, and we dismiss it together as passing breeze;
She is innocent to disguise (I am safe),
Her every feeling crackles like a fire inside,
And upon her, I can tell it by its glow.

Memory is rooms, and on a white wall in the one I stay,
A collage of her expressions rests as a painful masterpiece;
And in there, one is only her hands,
Slender, her steady hands, deep nailpaint fading at the edges, and a plain silver ring.

Cold was that smoky night, walking a yellow lit road,
Her voice quivered, she broke upon me stains of blood,
Rapt, I heard - lashed by an endless winter storm, she's the leaf that did not fall.

Dust swirls in the city sky, everything fades ***** brown,
But, in the break of her smile shines a catch of light;
When did dust ever settle on light?

Would he remember, when dark shadows creep, where lies the light,
And every little thing that would bring it to her eyes?
Would he stay till the twilight of days,
Or will she one day walk alone on a summer evening like today...

I will still be there - the shade that she searches, or a cool draft of breeze.

Who would he be?
I wish he's the someone who remembers where lies the light.

Where you walk, there is no darkness this night;
The streets and the sky bathe in a dazzle of light.
A blur of yellow speed races in streaks across the eyes;
It's an ocean of neon, but really, it's just a trick of sight.
The real lies where this din fades, and you hear the rhythmic click of alone footsteps;
It's dark inside, you know it's more than the city lights hide.

It was there, stark, veiled, steadfast, in the hours of the day that went by;
Did anyone notice it's shadow behind your eyes?
It hung still, as conversations gurgled and passed, and the players of daytime came and played their part.
There were sparks occasionally, the fleeting radiance of exchanged smiles;
But nothing questioned the dark shadow of the still darker reaches inside.

You laughed, you played along, you synchronized your beat with the hustle around;
And then, as the day fades into bright night, the stage shuts and the actors go home;
You too cast your mask aside.
There is no one to look into your eyes;
To see how deep goes the dark tunnel inside.

How long will you play before that day;
When the tunnel fills and the dark spills out;
And in the morning, there is no mask for the relief of daylight.
There is no morning - only that dark, now out as much as inside.