“I have feelings for you,” she said. “Oh, I’m
Sorry, we’ll have to get you better,” he replied
Handing her some cough-syrup and a bunch of pills.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said; meanwhile, she
Proceeded to hide her heart in the pocket of her jacket, so that
He wouldn’t notice how intact it was.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“Who knows? I guess I stared
Too much, but do not
Worry; it’s not
Contagious.”
He nodded
And thanked
Kissed her cheek
Omitted a goodbye.
They went their own ways.

A few minutes later she was inspecting her pocket
“Why did you do that? He could
Have been the one,” said
Her heart.
She didn’t reply.

In Lalitpur, a small city,
a poem in
and of itself,
near to the capital city,
Kathmandu,
in the magic
word-world of
Nepal.

Who in the world is Simrik?

Girl, 15, apologetic,
with the heart of a deer.
who unlike most
kindly requests your criticism.

Ok, here is my criticism.

Your writes are a shotgun blast.
It cannot be that fifteen years
has been granted
a simple eloquence
that writes and feeds
tastes of visions
of a spiced life
far away, but
close by.

winding roads
and the trees,
the train station,
train tracks,
jeeps for taxis.
the market at night.
a few bookstores i wanted
to enter but couldn't/didn't
benches at chowrasta,
aloo chat.
penang momo,
the "aum sweet aum" poster
they had there.
pretty girls in chowrasta.
so well-dressed.

at fifteen I could not
see so well, see so fine.
not I.

i have fallen for boys, and i have fallen for men.
i don't know if it'd still be falling if i only ever
fell for pieces of them. and as for you, you were no
exception. my eyes never knew the ridges on
your body as soft as icing on a cake, or the
veins in your arms and they've only read
your words, your tastes, in pixels, but i
fell anyway, briefly. the heart is a muscle
the size of a fist, an ***** that has nothing to
grow and fit into. you never really know where
exactly in your chest it really is or if it's the right size.
there'll be growing pains in your ventricles and
dislocation to your spine or your stomach to tell you
of that before the cardiologist, and when you find the
cure or place it back to where it was, you'll have
stories written like prescription notes.

One time, when I was fifteen,
(For I have been
fifteen
many times),
I knew that
I didn't know
how to express
the potpourri
of what
was inside
of me,
the desire was
compelling,
the skills lacking,
for I lived in amidst a
family of writers, critics, historians,
and saw the birthmark of my incapabilities
embarrassed rosy red on my face every morning.

my incapabilities.

not Simrik.
oh no.

here's blood clotting where i got bit by a leech at a
monastery, from after the day i told you we needed to drop
to being friends from lovers. deserved it, totally. you had
blisters on your knees, from the day i sent you back.

you said i still had your heart with me.
when i reach the sea in 12 days,
i'll return with the crevices on them
mended with the pieces of
toughest seashells i can find,
wrapped in a sheet of prayer flag
i tore from the monastery,
so that when you place it back
between your ribs,
you'll have prayers
and the sound of the sea
flowing in your veins.

At fifteen, I read Camus
and the sport pages.
At fifteen, I peeked  
at my neighbor's *******
dreamt blonde dreams.
what I knew
was
what I did not know.

so here is my criticism.

you remind me now, this day,
of what
I still do not know
nor can ever hope
to capture as well
as you.

Spring
A young boy runs through the forest, giggling with excitement.  He had been trapped in the house all winter: kept inside by his parents to defend him from the cold.  The boy runs and runs, driven by the boundless energy that children have.  There is so much to explore in this self-reviving wonderland, so much fun to be had.  Slowly, the boy comes to a stop.  He looks up, mystified by the expanse surrounding him.  It’s so large, so incomprehensibly large.  Buds of new life emerge everywhere around him and melted snow drips from the treetops.  He looks down and sees the small sapling of a tree.  The boy studies it, examines every inch of the tree: the small leaves, the tiny, delicate stems.  Fascinated by the simple treasure he has found, the boys sits in silence to admire his find for a short while, then runs home to share his discovery with Mom and Dad.

Summer
A couple, teenagers, stroll through the forest, laughing as they go.  The forest is completely green now, alive, thriving.  Thin rays of sunlight trickle through the cover that the thick canopy above has created and warm the cool air.  It’s mid-morning and the constant, peaceful hum of the forest fills the air.  The couple comes to the tree, larger now, and sits down to rest in it’s small patch of shade.  They continue talking, teasing each other until they run out of things to say, and then silence.  They sit together, hand in hand.  He looks at her and senses something turn deep inside of him.  She shifts and a ray of sunlight illuminates her face.  She closes her brown eyes.  The boy leans in close to her and feels the warmth of her breath on his face.  He leans in closer and feels the smooth, subtle touch of her lips on his own.  They stay that way for a moment, taking in the sensation, and then he leans back: his first kiss.

Fall
A man walks through the forest, his arm stretched out below his waist so he can hold his daughter’s tiny hand in his own.  They walk side by side, her little legs taking long paces to keep up with his larger ones.  They come to the tree and sit at its base, facing each other.  He tells her a funny story from his past that she gleefully giggles at.  The man feels an overwhelming sense of joy when he looks at her happy face; her twinkling eyes and a smile so large it shows every one of her teeth.  He has never been more thankful for anything in his life.  He feels a tear come to his eye but he wipes it away; she is still too young to understand tears of happiness.  He opens his arms wide in a familiar gesture to her.  She jumps into them, embracing him.  They stayed that way for a while, silent, until he tells her “I love you, I love you…”, once for every orange leaf he sees loftily float to the ground.

Winter
An old man walks through the forest, snow crunching beneath his feet.  He takes small, slow steps, grasping the beauty of the forest he has come to know so well.  The air is thin and harsh on his aged lungs.  It bites at his nose and uncovered ears, reddening them.  The naked branches of the familiar trees around him seem to reach up to the heavens, begging for an end to the cruel winter.  The man comes to his tree and studies it, just as he did the day that he found it so many years ago.  “Oh, how we’ve grown,” he says.  He thinks back on his life: his accomplishments, his failures, the ones he’s loved.  He’s had a good life.  The old man sits down, his back resting against the strong truck of the tree: his favorite spot in the world.  He closes his eyes.  In the silence of the forest and with a smile on his face, he falls into an eternal sleep.

Someone dropped a pen.
His name was Prose.
"Write." Said he.
"Use it to bind ideas
With its tears as the rope."
So I tried.
But my strength
Rattles on his weight.

"Let me interfere."
Said Poetry.
"Scrape what you have done
And let your heart
Do the talking."
So I did.
Now I speak
In deeper linings.

"She's my girlfriend!"
he shouted as a boy placed his hands over her mouth and planted a fake kiss on her. His lack of sobriety allowed real rage to fill his eyes and he tackled the kissing boy. As they began to struggle against each other on the sticky hard wood floor that was probably covered by layers of party fouls, she thought, ' he called me his girlfriend. Why would he say that?' Her best friend sitting close by said it out loud
" Oh my gosh dude, he just called you his girlfriend!"
Through this short span the boys were finishing up there tuff and he began to find his seat next to her again. Placing his arms over her shoulder she didn't mind the sweat, or the alcohol. It actually reminded her of most of their nights together. She wanted to kiss him. He was busy talking across the room to an equally as drunk buddy about who the bigger beauty was. She didn't drink. But she didn't mind it. Taking people home was pleasing, plus there was a greater chance of getting him home, with her. The party was picking up. The boys with the I-pod were getting drunk enough to start up their typical loop of songs. Being from Texas she knew that she would be dancing. She loved dancing. Even when the boys she was dancing with were drunk it was fun. Plus, he couldn’t country-dance so she got to dance with others and he was forced to watch. Dancing always reminded her of home, a small rural town in Texas where you could be a outcast and popular all at the same time. She did it all in high school. Cheerleading, sports, theater, you name it she was most likely involved. However, she felt like everyone in town, or majority disliked her. She constantly felt eyes burning on her too white to be here skin. So she left for school out of state, planning on never looking back. She did miss the dancing though. Every prom she made it a point to dance with her father, and to not sleep with her boyfriend.

Having *** on prom night was too cliché.

A boy grabbed her hand. My Maria was blaring through the speakers and it was about time she stood up anyway, the mindless getting nowhere conversation she was having with her friend was only justifying how ****** up her situation was. One of her biggest surprises in moving was that Canadian boys liked country and could dance to it. She never thought a taste of home would come from a drunken kid from Vancouver.  He was a best friend with her interest but that didn’t keep him from pulling her close, so close she could tell that his last drink had just enough whiskey to float the ice cubes.

The party had reached the relaxed stage. Cute petty arguments were filling the air. He stood behind her and grabbed her hand. Surprise ran through her but she couldn’t show it. It’s suppose to happen, maybe he does like you? That was one of her favorite feelings. Brushing hands with someone, or having them grabs yours. The shock, the spark that runs from your finger tips through your stomach and out the top of your head.

Once, when she was young a boy held her hand in the movie theater, cupped, a true moment of tragedy.

Her friend saw what the drunken boy had done and began raving to her about how perfect they looked and how you can’t deny that something was there between them. She had two close friends. One who was somewhat a romantic until she got drunk and proceeded to call every guy within a ten-foot radius an *******. She came to college somewhat naive and with her heart still in a different state. A boy she had liked since high school kept here grounded. She needed to move on but she didn’t see it that way. Her story lead to a car stopping in the middle of the road letting her out to her eventually de-virgining by a, to say the least, experienced Canadian boy who wanted everything but also decided that nothing was good enough.  The other friend, who was more of a realist but still wanted things to turnout a certain way was also there. She haled from California, a sunshine girl who was unbelievably ditzy but unbelievably smart. Speaking her mind was never hard for her. She did make one vital mistake. Believing a European boy when said he was different. The only thing different about him was that he spoke broken English and wore tighter pants than American boys.

She had always been in a group of three, from school to school. There is a comfort in three, even more so for them, not only because they were all above 5' 9" but also because they all wanted the same unattainable thing.

He went home.
He went home with her.

A whirlwind of emotions began to ride up in her. How could you of been so dumb to think that it would work. At least the commotion of getting everyone down the stairs safely took her mind off of the fact that no matter what, he wasn’t going to love her. In the drivers seat she could hear the name-calling and the I can’t believe its being said by everyone. But the three of them knew it didn’t matter. Her willingness to let him come running back was always going to be there.

The next day lead to greasy food and stories of the night before. The futon mattress in the living room sprawled out on the floor laid out the venue for the party talk.

She played on a futon when she was a baby. Her parents have countless pictures of it. Innocent and fragile, not much had changed other than the addition of bitterness.

Why would he say that? She thought again and parked the car in the garage and helped carry the taco bell bags upstairs. She hated taco bell, being from an area around the Mexico border spoiled her pallet. Her friends crunched down talking about how guys are all *****. By now the night before had only faded somewhat in her mind.

He woke up that morning to a girl next to him. She had been awake since eight but let him sleep because it gave her more time with him.  They had a past and that made for great *** but also a girl burned in his eye that wasn’t her.

For him the night never happened.

If she could reverse her thoughts she would. She hated wondering why. She understood him being a 21 year old that wanted to get laid. But why grab her hand? Why act as if you cared for  her. Oh god she thought. It’s so simple.

Its because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

To know is to wonder.
To accept is to ponder.

It was 2 a.m. The moons rays shone brighter than a diamond in it's showcase. The 'thump-thump' of my heartbeat seemed to echo through my body. The forest was quiet that night. Quieter than it should have been. Not even a crickets back and forth harmony. Drops of sweat began to carve their way down my face. One thought repeatedly resonated  in my mind.
'Where is he?'
I started to question if the fallen tree I had taken shelter under, was hiding me well enough in this lightest of darks. I could see the moonlight dance on the keys of my cab, but if I could see it, so could he.
Snap!
I felt my heart stop beating. The sound was so close. A lot closer than I would have liked.
'Should I make a run for it?'
As I gained the courage to flee, I felt a cold leather glove on my shoulder. The glove yanked me towards him. Fear sank deep within me as I tried to shake free. His strength much mightier than mine, there was no fighting him.
He placed a cloth bag over my head with two mismatched holes cut out of them. They were meant for my eyes, but only my left managed to see through it's designated hole.
I saw my assailant.
He was not alone.
There were three others accompanying him.
All three were disguising their faces with white robes from their head to their toes.
It all came to a point at the top.
I noticed another white cloaked person, a lot shorter, hiding behind the leather gloved man.
That's when I felt it.
It snaked around my neck, it's threaded components piercing the cloth bag over my head, and jutting into my skin. It irritated and itched, but they arrested my hands together with a zip tie, so itching was impossible.
I felt one of the men grab me fiercely by the waist, and lift me onto what felt like my own cab.
I confirmed it by the yellow chipped paint out of the bottom left of my vision from when I backed into one of my clients mailboxes.
They said nothing the entire time.
Neither did I.
My tears were telling them everything that I wish I could scream.
One of the men nodded, followed by the approval nod of the leather gloved man.
He slowly raised his leather glove high into the air, confident of himself.
My stomach dropped.
I heard the cabs horn flare, and the tires squeal.
Gravity made an appearance.
I felt the snap of my neck, yet no pain followed.
The flaring horn silenced.
I opened my eyes. My vision was blurred.
The smell of my mothers pancakes, told me exactly where I was.