"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?

Feet interlocked under the table
elbows and coffee cups on it —
You're losing limbs now.
Yesterday when I walked home
in the chatter of drunk men,
sandals rubbing across gravel
and music
from a ringing cellphone
or the television from an old restaurant,
I was becoming someone else.
Catapulted words and trees that never forget —
You're only half a torso and a face,
maybe missing an ear.
Eight hundred miles then a thousand and eight hundred,
I still walk the same walk
and say those same things.
Round and round and round,
and you're just two eyes and a sweet smell.
I'm smiling wide across a table
and the sky is swirling.
The days last longer now,
and no one knows me.
Dessert, dancing and starry eyes —
You're nothing now.

Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
Looking back at those places we went to,
it's more ordinary than I remember it.
I wonder ―
Doesn't morning-light make everything beautiful?
then why do the roads look empty?
The red booth, faded?
Why is the terrace bland
with puddles of rain?
There's a chance I will never see you again,
and we will go on remembering this
as we remember it.
The grainy streetlight,
silhouette-trees, look in our eyes ―
Maybe we imagined magic
where it wasn't there.
But maybe there was magic
in the attempt,
all along.

I'm lying next to you,
knowing daylight will soon
slowly fill this room and
I will see you;
You will see me.
Here at twenty one
on a low mattress in a small living room somewhere,
we are falling asleep together.
Now at forty-seven,
while it's still
dark in the morning,
I still
feel the same.
Maybe some things always live,
like the man in Paris who always wore his hat or
that balcony with the light always, inexplicably on
or two people who kept seeing each other throughout their lives
in in-between's.
Years of "Goodbye, darling" and ending up where we started,
is an odd story.
Cold December at sixty-one,
maybe we will laugh about it with tea and something to eat
but now,
look ―
the room around us is painted in morning light and I see you.
Do you see
me?

Tomorrow I will go on like yesterday, you know ―
Same 'ol waking up, hot bath then smear peach-pink on each eyelid.
It's not an emergency,
but that Portuguese song about the serene farm
–a happy place―
reminds me of you.
Today I stirred my tea for longer,
lost in thought,
lost in repercussion,
lost.
It's not an emergency,
but I dreamt of us in a balcony at night;
sparkling eyes and wine.
I know I'm not extraordinary.
I was made to collect seashells in silence at windy seashores;
woman making boats of paper napkins at cafés and throwing it away.
It's not an emergency,
but were you looking for extraordinariness?
Did you find it in yourself?
A sad poem and glistening eyes in the dark ―
My last memory of you is from years ago.
We left this story where it was, maybe finished it,
I'm never sure.
It's not an emergency,
but I think we will meet again somewhere.
And midst champagne flutes and people's side profiles,
I will recognize you.

I don't need much from you.
I don't need promises, or a double bed or your truths.
I have lived a life enough to appreciate the little things
I have.
I have spent enough afternoons lying in monsoon's damp heat,
listening to crickets chirp,
a particular rat's squeaking,
whistling birds at a distance..
to know,
what matters the most.
Maybe I need from you most, to exist. Promise to be real in present time;
say for sure that you will look at me, and touch me
and wander with me.
I don't want you to be mine or make me yours.
I can't assure you I wouldn't change. But if you still always exist, somewhere, somehow in time
...I promise to stroke your back till you fall asleep,
and make you pots of tea.
Just live here, touch my cheek
and when you're walking too fast,
stop once to let me catch up.
You keep walking and waking;
dreaming, typing, eating, singing that song about blue skies.
Times I stroke your knuckles with my fingertips
when we are sitting together,
maybe hold my hand or...
look at me sometimes like you know me.
And in return my darling,
I promise you ― my heart and goldfish kisses.

And what happens to the teacups after we've left?
Clinking, clanging at the table;
carried, catapulted, cleaned.
Do they know of our lips that tasted of each other,
or things said, unsaid?
Where do eight years go?
Just, ****!!
― gone.
Or still occurring
in folds between our conscious blinks, our separate times midst now and then.
Do you and I exist again?
and again, and again?
Crossing the street again;
in the grass, under the blanket,
at the park again?
Are we kissing
again?
The lights and the people,
brown irides and darker pupils of this stranger,
and I,
round and round on this merry-go-round
― it's déjà vu.
Am I in the 'Again'?
Maybe déjà vu is Again, after all.
I'm at the beach once more;
they've built new houses.
You must've changed as well;
built new houses.
But I only remember old handwriting,
legs on legs, eating at 5am, icecube dragged across my skin;
I remember you in Agains.
Clinking, clanging at the table,
our teacups.
carried, catapulted, cleaned,
brought again ―
Maybe they
have seen ghosts of us
over again.

Your hand feels warm and it's nice, while floating in this cold, dark sky. The stars around us seem so big
and close to us,
but I haven't been able to touch one. Darling, how did we end up here; do you remember?
I can only recall cucumbers cut in circles and condensation on your glass of lemonade, from an afternoon.
We were moving
and dreaming in the world and our head was full of thought.
Now here in this starry nothingness, what do we think about?
How do you make a life, in complete stillness?
Maybe we could collect stars till the end of time
or become delicate ballet dancers.
We could spread the soft moon between Jupiter slices; make sandwiches for dinner.
Tears become diamonds here,
floating as if to a sweet nocturne on an invisible piano,
as I cry for all the people I have left behind.
All I wish for now
is to be remembered as love.
To have only been the sunlight flooding through open windows in dusty, abandoned houses;
I wish only to be remembered
as love.
I hope as we learn to live here we find happiness.
But I hope dear,
that even in our newfound joy
we never forget, the smell of a ripe orange, the taste of sour, summer breeze on a grassy hilltop or the colours of an ocean.
Okay,
let's go now,
sing songs we remember and pick a bright planet to call home!

I have had a full life at 81 today,
of many a ceramic cup and coloured skies.
As the sun now warms my skin, and you
clinking cups and cutlery
make milky tea for two and toast ―
I know I have lived happy.
Few knew me and few I knew,
and I spent most of my time searching for happiness; never knowing, it was right there ―
moving furniture in our little new apartment,
while dust, like stars, danced in a room flooded in sunshine.
My legacy now is not much,
but the leaf I picked from my mother's garden years ago, all the wrinkled notebooks,
and broken cups
that I still,
love too much to leave behind.
As I look at you brew my favorite tea today,
I could cry.
Love I found,
in crossing the street with you; in worn-out clothes, toothpaste kisses;
Love has been the smell of the side of your neck; our reckless decisions, loud laughter on quiet midnights; it's been, eating Ramen for dinner when we were broke.
Love,
Has been your hands.
Here, close to the end,
I realize I have never
wished so much
For an afterlife, before.
Here at 81 this morning,
as you kiss my cheek and call me for breakfast,
I know I have had a full life
of magnificent ordinariness,
and I can't believe I get to be here,
for another cup of milky tea and toast,
With you.

I am sleepy today; walking to the kitchen in a haze;
soft, pink toes on a cold floor.
Turns out,
I don't mind 5am's of awake.
There are bigger things in life than refrigerators ―
crackling of a fresh newspaper from the living room; the empty green, park benches.
I am singing a song,
while I pour water in an ancient saucepan
and it smells like bonfire outside.
There are bigger things in life than coffee tables ―
making up constellations of flickering stars, perfect fallen leaves; someone that holds your face while they kiss you.
Warm hands from the stove now, I walk,
quickly to put them against your stubble
Listen ...the neighbour's dog is singing love songs,
And it smells like tea here.
There are bigger things in life than Ideal ―
your cold nose at my cheek, sweet biscuits for breakfast, remembering the words to an Italian song from years ago.
This cold morning of you and tea, in an empty house of dusty floors
I realize,
There are bigger things in life.

Running across a street to an unfamiliar café to meet a stranger is not ideal for a seashell-person, but still, there's something comforting about wearing a bright, floral skirt on a rainy day.

The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.

Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.

It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.

When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.

I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.

As I ponder about today — the backdoor to a restaurant that played nostalgia in tune;
I wonder,
if the day was any more than her.
"This is the only happy-poem I wrote." She says. Coral.
Then goes on to string together blue melancholy.
So I wonder,
if lavender could be a person.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot and her people.
I am here
trying to learn her as if,
everything around her is scribble.
and I wonder,
"Do I understand?"
"Let me fix my face." She'd say grabbing her roses and apricots;
I don't understand.
I am here
painting her,
as her earrings dance with the tilt of her head;
the way she rises on toes reliving her poetry in a room full of eyes or
when she stops
to look at the ******* her jump-rope outside the car window,
as an evening fades away.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot, chai and her people...
A day has gone by
And I wonder,
If I know her yet.

Distances and cardboard boxes;
Maybe I like to move.
The coffee was good today and toasted bread with salted butter,
Was perfect.
I have been feeling loved and alone lately,
What's with the neighbour's loud dog and
dishes that don't wash themselves?
Crazy —
the dates I don't go to.
It was romantic, what the girl I didn't meet said to me.
Distances and unanswered phonecalls;
Maybe I just
like to move.
Stuck in traffic;
I found it beautiful how against bright lights,
you were just hair, nose and chin.
Anyway.
The pile of dishes in the sink is making me sad,
But still
the coffee was good today
and toasted bread with salted butter,
Was perfect.

Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather in monsoon and you —
I found you
In an apartment with a sunset wall and cane chairs.
Like an oyster closed shut against the waves of salty seawater; closed against the sun reflecting golden-green.
You are more than body, clothes, cigarettes, water; the scatter of thoughts and fog within you.
There you are,
So far afloat in a sea — golden and green, and I found you!
Do you ever wonder if the world is all imagination? Stardust for skin; the road and our houses a sandcastle creation?
Oh, what are the chances of birthday phonecall-kisses from my grandfather before he died; unread messages and wet eyelashes on a lonely night?
Scratched and bruised and cracked by an ocean, darling you and I — what are the chances?
What are the odds you'd survive your storm and go on,
Past seaweed and sharks?
That counting days, "one, two, ...thirty-seven thousand"
I'd have found fallen hibiscuses at bus stops, a card in my bicycle-basket and on a sublime day midst salty seawater, golden and green... I'd find you?
Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather and you —
I found you.

Home,
I often wonder
Where is.
For I found it
Often everywhere,
And nowhere at all.
Under a big slide in the evening
When I was little,
With pebbles and dust
Home, was easy to make.
I found it in teacups, in long drives
Sitting right behind the driver to avoid eye contact and
Hot showers before dinner to skip time.
"Why are seas so loud and so quiet at the same time?"
I'd often think and make home out of the endless sand at the beach.
You didn't ask me why I was quiet or shy
When I met you.
Maybe you understood my awkwardness, somehow.
But it's nice to drink tea quietly
Even with people around,
And that felt like home.
My apartment is walls but
I have corners I call home.
I often wonder,
How lonely I'd be without pebbles, art, hot showers and the loud rumbles of the quiet sea.
Or just a while in the morning light with you and black tea,
At home.

I do not feel free.
I do not feel free in these clothes;
In these interactions, media, the material under my feet on the carpet.
I do not feel free!
In my words, my voice;
In the way that we have become.
Another person is afraid to be called a Feminist and I wonder, what have be become?
Where are we?
What do we want?
Maybe it's sort of an existential crisis but I cannot make a way out of my chaos without writing it out.
Growing up those books, films manifested into dreams of climbing trees, making wings out of stretched arms and one day, saving the world.
Here I am today, in the backseat of a car, scared of the cab driver at midnight.
They say I am a useless, angry feminist.
I flinch at the word.
Maybe it is true but when I was five, making bouquets of wildflowers I was less angry, less feminist,
...less aware.
I could forget the bruises on my caretaker's face,
or the time my father barged into our room in the night and asked her
"Have you increased your prices or WHAT!?"
only because she refused to sleep with him that day.
It was easy to not wonder then, why she never spoke up or why she kept serving meal after meal after meal
to him when she was crying, sick or numb.
I was caught up with being bullied myself to think more about why that guy
was laughed at for being feminine.
Maybe today I am more scared than angry. Maybe scared is a more acceptable emotion to negotiate my right to equality.
I don't feel free.
What do I do when instead of arguing with a sexist commenter, I want to hug them and tell them
how much I want to cry,
how helpless I feel and how badly
I want this world to be a better place for each one of us?
I am reminded
of the couple of times that my caretaker brought home, baby birds
that fell from a tall tree near our house. Each time she made a home out of stacked twigs in a basket and fed them grains.
I was afraid to pet them but she would hold them close to her fearlessly.
Each time
the birds would die in a week's time.
I always thought the house was too physically, maybe emotionally cold for baby birds to survive.
All I want,
is a house warm enough for baby birds to survive.
Is it too much to ask for?

The strands of my hair mix well with the breeze
and here you are, right in front me.
And it's a typical evening at Danny's
of slow-dance romances and marijuana smokers.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?
People,
like you.
Who appear in the cab, on the way home or
in front of me when when I am looking at my reflection on the floor.
Or people,
like Danny.
Who don't exist until I'm writing a poem.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?

Love, we are going to meet on Tinder.
or by the sea, in a four 'o clock rain, or maybe
while I sat alone at a cafe pretending to write,
and you'd come to me and say "Hi, I couldn't help but notice
how colorful you are on this grey morning."
or something more realistic.
We'll laugh a lot, make jokes to seem anything but boring,
and initially say a lot of "Um, so..."s to fill the silence.
You are going to catch yourself thinking of the brown in my hair,
the scent of the side of my neck, my skin in morning light
and I am going to memorize the lines on your palms like my favorite song.
Darling,
we'll kiss on my terrace and talk until, skies turn to drizzle and drizzle,
it turns to rain
and we would run, and kiss, and laugh, and kiss and burn like bonfire,
and the blues and reds from our chaos-painted bodies,
will turn into streams of purple, violet, lavender.
For a moment somewhere in between,
I will glance at your closed eyelids while you kiss me,
and wonder if you are here to stay.
In just that glance, I'd see dawns, teacups, naps on airplanes, and
several days, months, maybe years of quick glances at your closed eyelids.
And you, are going to spend days thinking of me at insignificant times,
like an old song from an advertisement you thought you forgot.
We'll talk, and then not talk and I will write you a poem or two
and you will say something like, "I appreciate that."
Years after, I'd be reaching for tea in the cabinet and maybe Twinings would remind me of you and I would stir you,
in my cup of tea like sugar till you dissolve to nothing.
and you will tell another girl
of how you haven't been a part of something serious in a while, "just a couple hookups" you'd say and think of me.
And all that there will be of us,
is an empty terrace somewhere stained purple, violet, lavender.

Yesterday my sister and I lay on the bed,
while I read to her my diary entries from 2010.
We laughed about my desperate bouts of affection for my crush that year,
the time I broke my right wrist, outdated song references and how everyday started with "Today is the worst."
Sitting with my friend and her brother, he asks me "Isn't PTSD the thing that happens to soldiers on war?" I nod to him and say,
"Yes but I am the soldier who cannot come home from my war, can only come home to it."
I don't like the taste of my tea that I spent fifteen minutes making,
but I am going to at least drink half of it.
Every time I hear a love song, it reminds me of my caretaker; She is the only one I truly loved.
For years after I shifted to the city she kept calling me, some answered, some left ringing next to my pillow.
She doesn't call anymore and I can't help but obsess over it.
I haven't been to the beach in a longtime and I feel like I am forgetting how it looks, or sounds.
I don't like that.
Early in 2016, my therapist tells my sister to hide all pills, toxic material and knives away from me.
A week after hiding everything, she forgets.
I have tried to start taking my medication several times but I always discontinue it,
my therapist thinks my attachment issues with people is showing up with the pills too.
I think I have two favorite colors; a fading green and light blue.
I remember I always wore black clothes when I was in school.
My father once screamed at me at the movie theater for wearing black again. I wonder why he did not say anything in the car.
The night after I overdosed on Lorazepam pills washed down with old coke, I cried in the morning because I was still here.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is the name of a song that I really relate to;
A song I have heard enough to hate, but cannot find the stop-button to.
Making constant eye contact makes my cheeks and ears, very warm.
Most of my nightmares are about my father or my caretaker, both are not nice to me in my dreams.
I have a hard time remembering roads, conversations or what month or year it is.
Today I read my diary entry from two days ago.
"Today is the worst." it said.
Funny.

What is it about cab rides,
that make me feel so happy?
Just an hour drive, of uninterrupted playing
of my playlist.
Something about, passing everything by.
There is a comfortable place,
in the way between.
Something soothing,
about 'not there yet'.

The truth about me
is that my teeth need to be fixed
but I am too scared of the dentist.
Something about the whiteness of a clinic
and the smell of a previous patient's tongue,
makes me want to wait for dentures.
I am the kind of person,
you could bully and make cry,
to help yourself fit in.
Somewhere between society's rights and wrongs,
I paint my eyes too dark, struggle to smile in photographs
and constantly worry about getting *****, the next time I leave my house.
The truth about me
is that I am paranoid that everyone is lying to me,
that I am a potential alcoholic and my favorite hobby,
is a Russian roulette of self destruct.
I do not understand best friends, brown rice,
or how one cannot shut up about how much weight they need to lose.
The truth about me
is that I don't know how to say "I love you" and mean it.
That every time I try to build a home, it breaks.
I am a breezy sunrise, reeking of bad decisions,
sad memories with happy endings.
The truth is,
I will waltz into your life and make your skin tingle with soft kisses.
I will,
break bottles, kiss your ear, make you cry, make you laugh, run away, hike mountains, **** with your head and slowdance with you, till we mix like oil paints, smiling, and swaying till nothing at all,
exists except our whispers, and the blue-purple air that surrounds us.
Love. I am happiness, chaos and nature
and the truth about me,
is that I am not going to stay
but I promise you,
I will be unforgettable.

It's a tiring job
to lift the teabag out of
my cup before,
I drink it.
So I drink it.
In fact, I have started to admire
its soft touch on my lower lip,
kissing me.
My beloved cup of tea
is the only good in my world.
But am I not lucky
to have her warm love,
help me get through this cold morning?
Her cinnamon breath
and lingering sweetness
that stays on my warm tongue
is happiness.
In an endless world
my dear cup of tea,
you're all I have.
Just you,
and me.

"I mean I don't like you, like that yet." you said,
and went ahead to kiss me and cup my *******.
I have always been that kid who liked everything.
The cold morning breeze, scalding sunshine, brick walls,
burnt soup, inconsistent laughter, English class,
the weird kid in seventh grade who bullied me and
making crosses on my skin with fingernails over mosquito bites. So,
I did not understand it when you said you did not like me.
I wondered, if it was because my nose was too crooked, or my lips too plump or because my hair didn't have a shape?
It's weird because I like you and for all that makes you.
And it is so simple for me,
to appreciate the subtle balding of your head, the shape of your shoulders, the Pinocchio nose of yours or the fact that you are an *******.
I started to like the taste of your skin, the touch of the camera around your neck, your old, fading jeans and the 'know it all' attitude.
I heard your words in poetry when you kept saying,
that I don't know you well enough to like you or love you or to cuddle with you while I slept.
Darling, we both know you never intended me to know you well enough.
You said you liked how I wrote my words, my short haircut and the curves of my body,
but not enough to like me.
So strange, because it was as easy as breathing,
for me to draw masterpieces out of your naked body painted in
the subtle yellow light of an evening.
I haven't felt as worthless, as I did when I spent hours in the night,
loving each inch of you just to hear that
you don't like me, like that.
Darling when I held you, I held you with all the universe in me.
I held you, hoping to mend every broken part of you,
to make disappearing clouds out of everything
that keeps you awake at night.
It was simple to kiss your skin and to like it,
and to like you.
I liked our time, your kisses, and the husky sound of your voice when you said "I don't like you like that"
Maybe it's stupid that I like you,
like it is stupid to like loneliness, mud spots on a favorite clothing or holding my breath under water.
It's stupid to feel
so unbearably off balance while loving someone so emotionally unavailable and
liking it.
It's stupid
and you are a *******
but I like you.
I like you.

Hi love,

What I love the most about this letter is that you might or might never read this. The uncertainty is more comforting to me than knowing what will be. Maybe that is why I am going away from you; maybe that is why I have not and probably will never respond to your messages.

When we first started talking, you promised to give me the last teabag in your backpack that you carry, but you never did. You did give me though – several three AMs’ of not-friends, a night of drenching in the rain and the little room in your mind where I exist. I never understood why I felt so deeply about you, because I never really liked you. My heart broke, each time you left me cold before the sun came up. I cannot explain darling, how it hurt to consider possibilities of this turning into a wonderful magic when in reality, you are only free when you are *****. My beautiful daydream, I do not blame you. Maybe there is beauty that I do not recognize, in falling in love with something that you are supposed to hate.

I will always cherish that one time that you fell asleep for a while with me. You smelled of the soft love we made and sleep. And most of all darling, you smelled of you; how I miss the smell of you. I remember, every time after you left, I would clench onto the sheet and lie down because in a strange way, you smelled of home to me. When I was in college, all my outstation classmates would go home in the vacations and I’d realize that I have no place to call ‘home’, nowhere that I can be at love and peace- that I can call my own. Maybe that is why, I always look for home in the people that I come across. Is it vain to do that? I certainly hope not.

It is hard for me to stay away from you. I always end up soaking up every last minute that you choose to give to me. But this time I need to go, love. I do not have a lot of time to invest in this beautiful world of you, I and heartbreak. I am an ocean-girl, my daydream. And when I love, I love with all of my ocean heart. I am finding it very hard to contain my ocean self in the tiny jars of your twisted words, and half-hearted midnights.

Now that this is the last time that I would communicate with you, let me tell you this embarrassing thing. I spent an hour on an insignificant evening, stalking your mother on Facebook. But then again, I stalk friends of friends of friends, all the time. The reason that I am bringing this up is because while going through her pictures, I found this one photograph of her younger self holding baby-you in her arms and smiling. I had taken a screenshot of that picture and was going to show you and talk about it, but we never met after that so I would like to acknowledge it here. I just want to express that, the photograph was one of the most beautiful things that I have ever come across. The soft light on her skin, her long uncombed hair and the beautiful mix of joy and melancholy in her smile- I looked at that picture for a longtime, overwhelmed. I knew in that moment that I was in utter love with the woman in the photograph. It was surprising how I did not hesitate once to call it love. That photograph for some reason, means more to me.

I hope the pastel drawing of a sunset that I gave you, always makes your heart happy. You really are like a sunset to me. You are always evolving and changing in dark and light shades of your existence. I hope you always find reasons to love every inch that creates you. I also hope that someday, you find someone who you can share a night of peaceful sleep with, someone who paints each breath of yours with miracles and love.

So here it is darling. Here is the end.

So long.

Dear mister ‘I-am-judging-you-for-the-type-of-tea-you-drink’,
I like you.
Maybe you would be comfortable if I didn’t say that I like you, or mention your discrimination for tea or was not the girl who wrote you a poem
But here I am, you. Here I am being the most vulnerable that I can be today.
I realized it last year on another rainy day in June, that I am the most vulnerable when I write poetry.
It was an evening when I sat near a window that sprayed rain water over my face while I wrote
A poem about the coffee I spilled on my bed that morning. Who knew, a mere coffee stain would take me back to war and pencil sharpeners from eighth grade and the kid who sold me two ballpoint pens for ten bucks at a traffic signal?
It would probably make you uncomfortable if I tell you that I recognize the shape of your hands better than mine but here I am, telling you just that.
Dear you,
Today on this rainy 12:42 am, I want you to know that I like how you make smiles without noses.
I like how the scent of your skin reminds me of cold blankets on a rainy night or how the shower smells of body-wash, long after I’m done.
Will you go away, if I tell you
that I want more of you than half-hearted ‘I need you’s and warm, replaceable hugs?
Will you stay, if I say,
that I see dawns with you at seashores and photographs of laughter and cups of tea?
That than searching crowds for perfect misfits- I’d rather make home out of my shaky arms, where I could draw portraits out of charcoal and you could make art of what we have.
Darling, I like you but let’s for now pretend that I don’t.
Let’s pretend I am in it for the temporary thrill and as soon as you leave,
I forget you.
That maybe I have a couple others, who make my heart happy when you are not around,
And you are not more to me than a friendly hookup.
Are you comfortable now?

I broke up with him a while ago. I don't remember if it's been a few weeks, months or years. I just know that I have not talked to him in a long while and I do not want to; I do check his blog at times though, because I'd like to still know that he exists and that, he was real.

He posts jokes and short stories sometimes, about how his ex was all negative things. Maybe he is talking about me or maybe he is talking about — the women he has been with before me. It could be anyone because he is good with pointing out flaws; it's an art I'd say. Or maybe, it's in fashion to label ex's as their negatives... Maybe there is a sense of relief in that. I try to understand but I am not sure if I relate to it because I always find comfort, in the happy memories and in the good in people. I like to stubbornly cling to the sunshine.

When I think about the relationship and him — I accept that there were so many things that were not right, that hurt me. But that is not how I would want to remember him. The time with him had alternate shades of light and deep blue — facets that were so bright, that it would brighten up all my existence. A couple of days of waking up next to him were so sublime, I still think of it and smile. I loved the way he blinked, the way he childishly frowned and that one time that he read to me — one of my favorite authors. He was bright and imaginative. He found stories in all the ordinary occurings around him; he was a beautiful, storyteller. I found it adorable how particular he was about brushing twice, and how organized he kept everything that belonged to him.

He was endless in the way he existed in my life. And even though I was not a memory, happy enough to him— he'll always exist in the light and dark blue corners of my mind.

Two of my closest friends in this world are — a cooing, white-grey pigeon that always sat outside my bathroom window, who I started out being scared of but eventually made friends with and — the rough textured, brown brick wall that has comforted and kept me company many a time, at a cafe that I frequent to.

My world is made up of not only people but coral evening skies, a cup in my kitchen rack that says "Good things are going to happen.", the shy lizard that I sometimes come across, cold-pressed mango juice and many little things that, I have started to grow fond of in my existence.

In the previous year I have had a million laughs, good amount of cry, came to terms with my mental illnesses, met a bunch of interesting people and also made some glorious mistakes. It's been a great time!

I am just utterly in love with this magnificent world and this magically, abstract life that I have. Reaching 20 years is not very different than reaching 19 or 18 — just more memories (good ones and the ones that make you cringe), couple of accidentally broken mugs and more friendly pigeons!

I am grateful and excited to spend more time discovering little bits of this world and myself, and to have more hours in this universe of sparkle. Here is to the future sunrises, hugs, uncountable cups of tea, memorable conversations and bright, uncontainable gladness!

So instead of searching for the better self, the greener grass or the balance — let's for once, embrace the glorious mess that we are. Maybe then we would find that, all this time that you were looking for happiness — happiness was looking for you.

The green shirt that is lying in a pile with my other clothes, does not look green to me anymore. I wore it once and washed it about five times because I always forget where I toss it.

As I sit here in the corner of my bed; my eyes burning from lack of sleep but still not tired enough— I see the faded green shirt, crumpled with my old pair of jeans and five other shirts that I never wear. It once meant more to me, that shirt. Now it is just weary and old, collecting memories and dust.

I cannot wear it anymore because the misty green reflection in my eyes take me back, to when I first met you. The smell of cold coffee and the roughness of tissue papers from our first date makes me swoon. It reminds me, of several letters that I wrote to you with silly scribbles on the top and the crossword puzzle that I drew that now deserves a place in your bin. Takes me back to the seashore at night, candle light and the photographs you took of me wearing it. I can still feel the coldness of the plastic cup with the orange slurpee that we shared and laughed till our stomachs hurt, the way you held me every time you came to see me at my place. I think about the weekend we spent together, the matters we argued over; the days, the nights, afternoons and evenings that I cried alone in a grey room while anxiety twisted its knife deeper into my torso. The green shirt in the pile, reminds me of your beautiful smile, yoga class twice a day and how I trusted you with things when I was the most vulnerable and opened up to you and Oh, how you used it against me. Your shirt makes me think of how much my sister liked you, your childish laughter and the short story you wrote about not wanting your shirt back because you think I'm huge and I must have stretched it all out.

Out of all the things that we could and could not have said to each other— I'm sorry for stretching your shirt out.

It's scary, the thought of being alone. No one to love you like how lovers do.
No one to kiss you like how lovers do.
But isn't it scary to love,
with no spark of madness,
no magic in each eye contact you make.
Isn't it scary to waste your time
in half hearted 'I love you's,
lies more than truths and
truths that don't inspire you.
Darling, it's scary here, to be alone
but it's more meaningful,
to eat takeout chinese for one
than to make half hearted efforts,
to kiss how lovers do,
when you're not

I cried with a throbbing head
and pills in my hands and floor.
I cried while I wrote to you—
"please come meet me." you said,
"I am coming." when I said "my head
Hurts so..."
"I'm coming." you said and I took one
sedative, scared that I might
Take them all.
"I am scared. Please come to me." I wrote
as I felt ***** and tears,
at the back of my throat.
"I'm coming." you said, switched your
phone off and went to yoga class.

I don't think you understand the person that I am. I don't think I have more energy to make this relationship more than it is because no matter what I want it to be, it is always going to stay how it really is. I do not feel angry at you right now, simply because I do not have the energy in me to feel anger. I just feel drained, that's all. At this point, I don't know what is the right thing to do. All I know is that this relationship is draining me more than it should. I am a paranoid person and that is the truth. Lying to me, so elaborately for whatever reason is not healthy for my mind. It also means, that I cannot trust you again, even if you say something as simple as "I had pasta for lunch, today." I just cannot. I had told you before about my paranoia (about cameras in my apartment, people watching through my window, doubting everything anyone ever says etc) but you still went ahead and lied to me. Specially, abandoning me when I needed someone the most. That means, I cannot depend on you again. I am scared to be alone, just like you are and everyone else is but I cannot give my hundred percent in a relationship that drains me this much. Again, I don't know what is the right thing to do so I am going to go with the flow and not get worked up about this. But I would like to say, that I do not look at us as a serious relationship anymore. I would be more comfortable if I were only dating you and not calling it a relationship. If that is okay with you, I would be okay with seeing you and giving a chance to adjust. Also, I would like my childhood photograph and the journal pages back; you can keep the letters.

He got home around 8 pm and walked to the kitchen, almost mechanically. He put water to boil while he picked one of the two identical mugs kept in the cabinet. His eyes kept drifting as he made himself coffee and walked to the couch, forgetting the sugar as usual.

It had been two weeks since she killed herself and it still hadn't settled in his head. How can someone that you have known for more than a decade, just not exist anymore? He sipped from his cup and resisted the urge to spit out the coffee. He never drank coffee without sugar but today, he was too tired to get up again. "Maybe I don't deserve sugar in my coffee." he thought and took another sip. The curtains at the balcony danced slowly, to the grey evening breeze and he stared, unblinkingly. The curtains, almost a dreamlike hypnosis taking him back to memories. Memory, of their room at midnight and the black-blue bruises at her back. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this. I just... I am sorry." he had said. She was expressionless when he hugged her, as if she was dead already. He gasped as he looked away from the dancing curtains, breathing short breaths. It wasn't the first time that he was feeling guilty. He always felt sorry after every argument, every bruise and every time she screamed out of pain.

Before she died, she took the time to gather all the letters they had written to each other, old dried flowers, the dress she wore on their first date and all little memories that reminded of the happy times they spent together and arranged all of it on their bed. What did she mean by doing so? Maybe she wanted him to remember her by all the good memories or maybe, she wanted to taint those memories with what she was about to do so that no matter what he thinks of, he is always reminded of this.

He frantically got up and drained his coffee in the kitchen sink. The memories haunt him, even the good ones. It never was clear why she decided to **** herself and if it was because of him or not but either way, he was guilty.

I think of her often but
I only sometimes let her know.
She colors her lips purple
and kisses cigarettes, and leaves
purple marks on her glasses.
I know she thinks of me,
At times.
Maybe when she has wiped her color
and she is holding a cup,
maybe she sees me
in the refection of herself
in clear tea.
And when it is late at night
and she has stepped out in cold,
to smoke her last cigarette
and I am asleep.
Possible, that she thinks of me
and I dream about,
only her.

sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
I like how your eyes shift and your lips curl
and I think about the million times that
you've smiled that same smile.
Your blue shirt, my favorite one in our closet and
swimming in your eyes,
I come across many tea and coffees, wrinkled sheets, undone laundary and kisses.
You shuffle your feet under the table,
and I make paper boats of tissue
I like how for a moment your fingers touch my knuckles.
It takes me back to,
our giggles on a quiet plane, walking barefoot on grass, crying with you under the sheet and anniversary dinners.
sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
It's our first date, for a couple hours
and a lifetime.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. She would never know what to say or how much eye contact to make and so, she would look at her arms instead and tug at her clothes in haste.

But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in her eyes. It was very different, the way she looked at her like as if she knew more than anybody has ever known about her. But they did not know each other for long. Two weeks they spent together when she was visiting Verona and after that, four months of writing letters to each other. "I woke up thinking of you this morning. The walls reminded me of you, my feet on the floor felt like my skin against yours and even my coffee tasted of you." she once wrote in a letter and those were the most beautiful words anyone had ever thought about her. She found herself melting into her words, those deep eyes and just her existence but she would never let her know; she would hardly admit it to herself. "Darling, people are abstract. The things that you love about me might not be a part of what makes me tomorrow." she would remind her, every time.

Most times she would read the letters over and over again. Some parts even more than the others like this one, "Weddings are such beatific affairs, apart from the moulding uncles, aunts and their unhappy looking partners, dwelling in their grey clouds of eternal loathing. Except that, I love weddings. I danced all night at Patric's reception last night and oh, you know how I can't dance without breaking a bone or two; you saw me that night outside Al Pompiere. Turns out, I dance fantastically once I have a bottle of Sauvignon blanc in my system! My love, how I wish you were there with me at the joyous occasion. Also, I dreamt of you in a white wedding dress, while I sat alone when the music was soft and all the lovers danced unaware of realities, as if in a state of hypnosis. My dear, I could die in that moment for I had seen in my mind the most incomparably magnificent imagination." She always felt unsure of how she exactly felt about those words and how she would reply to that letter. She might have told her that it was sweet of her to write those words but she knew that she felt so much more than that. She had never imagined herself in a wedding dress before and that evening after reading her letter, she closed her eyes and she pictured herself in a white gown and it was as if she grew in her thoughts and her mind opened up to new possibilities that scared but excited her. She made her feel like she was introducing her to herself and that now every time she looked in the mirror she saw a little more of her each time.

She was dusting her bookshelf when her letter arrived that afternoon. She sat on the couch, cross legged while she very patiently opened the envelope, unfolded the paper and started to read. She sounded disheartened and melancholic. "It is not that my love for you depends on the feelings that you reciprocate or that what I feel is conditional but my love, when I was sitting at the coffee shop today going through the letters you have written to me over time, I saw them as if with new eyes. I felt like you were so disconnected. Each one sounded like you were forcing the words onto the paper. Darling, your words lacked you in them, it lacked the meaning that I have seen in your eyes therefore I know for sure that it exists but I am in a state of confusion and paranoia. My mind is consumed in thoughts that you don't trust me yet and that you think I am one of those people that you talk about who call you pretty. On the other hand I wonder, then why would you keep writing to me after every letter I sent you? I don't know what is going on in that fascinating mind of yours but love, do you feel like you are wasting your time on me? I wonder, if you do think that then am I wasting my time? I feel disorientated today...but I hope I find clarity in the next letter you send me."

That was the last letter that she ever sent her and she never replied to it. She overdosed on her antipsychotic medication , the night after she received the letter. They found her in her bedroom midst a pile of journals, clothes and painted canvas boards. They also found several letters that she wrote to herself and replies to the letters that she sent to her own address, as if she was talking to herself.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in, her own eyes.

Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping
I have almost drowned in this room.
Recently when he said he was okay,
with having another women with us in bed.
This bed was a storm, my dear and I am never a boat goodenough.
I had her hair on my face and the sheet did not smell like him and me.
I almost drowned in the moment he closed his eyes and she put her hand on my breast.
The air was now tears and sea water and her fingertips and her ankle
and his wrist and
everything I managed to see,
blinking, like photographs.
I almost drowned and I didn't want to be at sea,
or be a boat.
Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping.
I am safe here and it's dry
but I have already drowned in my head.

I first met you at a tiny cafe that served awful coffee but was comfortable to me. Something about the walls in that place, something about the rough texture that I really liked. Often when I sat there alone, I would run my fingers along the uneven, grainy lines on the wall and it would feel pleasant.

You wanted to meet in the afternoon, which was strange to me because most men would conveniently want to meet for dinner and drinks. I usually have it all planned out, almost like a ritual. I ask the person to meet at this particular bar that I am familiar with and I always get there before they do. I order myself a whiskey-soda so that I am tipsy enough to bare sharing conversation with a complete stranger. When they finally arrive, I greet them with a big smile and a compliment. "You look great!" I'd say. They would be flattered and get comfortable. The date usually ends up with me sleeping with them and never calling them again. Sometimes, I do call but only to sleep with them again. Nothing more, nothing less.

So when you wanted to meet in the afternoon at a coffee shop, it threw me off guard. I was an anxious mess when I got there also because you had reached the café before I did. I do not remember most of our conversation that day because I was having an anxiety overdose through out our date but I do remember, that you were wearing a sky blue shirt because I had told you about my obsession with all the shades of blue. I remember talking about how bad the coffee was, making paper boats out of tissues and prolonged eye contact that made me more anxious and soothed me at the same time.

You were leaving the city for a couple months on the day after the day we met, so we decided to meet again the next day for a movie. It was a wonderful movie but the lounge chairs were too big and it felt like we were sitting so far apart. Every now and then, I would try to look at you from the corner of my eye and I'd laugh too when I would hear you laugh. I usually get dizzy when I stand after I have sat down for more than an hour, so I held onto your arm to prevent myself from falling when we were getting out of the movie theater. I took you to the bar I really liked and I had a couple of ***** drinks and you had a beer. I was tipsy soon and the candle at our table looked hazy, among other things.

We left the bar, swaying and laughing. "I don't want to go home yet." I told you. "Me neither." you said, looking into my eyes like you really meant it. I suggested we go to the beach. We did. I remember the calming sound of the ocean and your voice... It was a beautiful melange. We walked along the shore, back and forth, talking. "I really like your hands." I thought and maybe even said aloud, as I traced your palms with my fingertips. We kissed that night and before you dropped me home, you promised to meet me in the morning, the next day before you left for the airport.

I had lit candles at my tiny apartment and organized my journals and canvas boards, to make it seem a little tidy. We sat on my couch and awkwardly smiled at each other at intervals while we talked about random things. I remember us holding hands and talking, looking into each other's eyes. We made beautiful, blurry, enchanting love that evening. The room was filled with the low evening light from my window and the sound of us breathing. I loved every facet of the time I spent with you.

While we lay on the narrow bed, when you were holding my hand that was on your chest just minutes before we got dressed again and you left. You asked me if I would wait for you and I pondered about it for a moment before asking you if you wanted me to wait for you...

I am glad both answers were, yes.

Darling, I have been thinking of you
Lying sleepless in my warm bed,
Waiting for my sedative to
Cradle me to sleep.
I have been picturing you in a dark room,
Fast asleep next to your baby. And
The sight of your chest rising and falling
Is comforting to me.
You scare me, darling. I'm scared of the
decieve in your eyes, at times.
But there you are, right now
Your body sinking in your cold mattress
With your eyes closed and mouth half open, here, you are only a boy
Lost in this terrifying world. And
Here I am,
Traveling in my nocturnal state of mind,
To where I am most at peace.
And now, you are awake,
And I have fallen asleep.
Probably,
Forgotten each one of these words.

I remember the first time
When I knew what drowning felt like
It was in the gaze of his seashore eyes
And it would only be a lie,
If I said I tried hard enough to breathe.
It wouldn't be half true,
If I told you,
It wasn't more time that I wanted in his
Restless breathing waves,
Crashing against my collarbone.
His grasp like ocean currents that
Keep my arms as if in shackles,
No matter how hard I tried.
His fingers like, seawater
Seeping between my thighs.
Sinking in the sleepless ocean of his
Broad shoulders enveloping my skin and bones. I found home,
In his unloving stares and his need to only destroy me.
It's beautiful that he exists; as a seashore
Drenched in rain.
The first time I learnt what drowning felt like,
I didn't want to breathe again.

Love, you're lying awake at night
With your thoughts as tangled
As your curly hair
And your eyes, they are blinking away
In the darkness of today.
Love, you just don't say
How their stares drain you
Or how restless your heart is.
Instead, you
Paint that seamless smile
And blink away the night.
Love, you are magnificent
But do you realize?
That it is art, the way
You walk across a room,
Live in those long showers or
Lift your arms to tie your hair.
Times when you stare,
At ghosts from your memory
And nothingness.
You look like you belong
Anywhere but here.
Now, you are lying awake at night
Like an unmoving ocean
And I wish I could put you together
Like a jigsaw but for now
I'd rather wish for you,
Sleep.

Are you gone?
I can't hear you in my head,
Anymore.
It is unsettling to wear clothes that don't smell like you.
I have been stroking my arm with closed eyes
But it is not even close to feeling like yours
And that makes me sad.
Makes me mad that
Time flows and men go and
It is so strange that it at all matters.
Now I am staring at old buildings,
Thinking of your skin in low light,
Your face when you close your eyes
And wondering,
If you still wake up at dawn?
Tell me,
Are you gone?

I'm lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and heavy breaths.
My small room painted in the last shade of an evening
and his perfume.
There is more to this man than his honey glazed skin or the white shirt that he had slid off of his shoulders.
Secrets in the shape of his hands and the roughness of his palms against my fingertips.
With his half hearted smiles, his melancholy he hides at the seams of the curve of his lips.
There is more to this man,
Than how he lowers his voice when he walks around, talking on the phone.
Something about his bonfire eyes and the sweet disguise of an ocean of lonliness.
He is not like sunday morning, deep breaths in the shower or anything that says— home.
He is instead,
Like bitter coffee, or like thunderstorm keeping you awake at night.
What is it about his tireless stares, his mysterious eyes or the lies that I don't understand?
Lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and lazy nudges
I can't help but wonder—
There is more to this man.

I have lived like this for a longtime now.
Brewing tea at four am's,
watching the duet of my heartbeat and the flickering blue flame in the darkness of my kitchen.
So many nights that turned into mornings at the blink of my rose lit eyes.
Sitting at the same spot on the couch, trying to look through the fishnet skies.
From tea to coffee to cigarettes to joints to big sips of whiskey-cola.
Running away from addictions, time to time.
Running away from places and people before they could form a thought about me.
I live in a prison that I create for myself. Cancelling plans, dodging phone calls and avoiding eye contact.  
Getting drunk and making love to strangers that,
may or may not remember me.
Worrying.  
Worrying about what the world has come to and what my country is doing wrong and about all the innocent people that suffer everyday.
I am worried about my education and the future.
Also,  the life that I am creating for myself.
Worried about the dishes that I still haven't done,  
the mess around me that is growing like wildfire
or the whole minute that I haven't blinked.
I have lived like this for a longtime. Paranoid.  
Looking through the crack in the curtains and at lit windows in far away buildings.
At the dark patches in the sky where the stars aren't there.
Scared that the man in the television has looked into my eyes for too long and that the song playing is too relatable.
Too long have I been scared to now feel anything that is considered normal.
I have lived in my world of anxiety,  irrational fears and slow dancing curtains for too long to smile, laugh and love and not be it just half hearted.
But there is still hope for me in,
Quiet midnight's of making tea and
The one who stares back at me,
through the fishnet skies.

Lively people and empty conversations.
In here it's so much colder.
Lorazepam and alcohol,
I'm drunk but at least bolder.
I've been looking into his brandy eyes,
feels like it's been so long.
Couple more sips and his black shirt,
now they are playing our song.
The room is now a chatter,
I can barely stand.
We talk about our fancy tea
with whiskey in our hands.
It's 3AM and whiskey kisses
also a lot of stories and lies.
Love songs only break your heart
so bid our blurry goodbye.

The room smells of whiskey and cigarettes
and the sweet scent of her hair.
vecchi difetti, playing in the background
to move an inch, I wouldn't dare.
Her delicate wrist, thrown across my breast
and our bare ankles sticking out of the sheet.
All I hear is her uneven breath.
The sound of my heart catching up to her beat.
I close my eyes and breathe her in
she curls up, pressed against me bare.
I open my eyes to look at my love
and as always, she isn't there.