hello, you -
tucked in soft covers,
your head on fluffy pillows,
your name in the prayers of lovers,
your light dancing in willows,
hello.

you can't see it,
but you paint the sky
every night in lush silver.

you can't see it,
but every lonely eye
every solitary sigh
looks to you for comfort.

blue moon,
your light cups its fingers
around so many sullen chins,
you, a night vision,
dance on so many fiery skins.
blue moon,
you're making a joke of distance,
you're making night blossoms bloom.

blue moon,
now we're no longer alone.

today i proclaim
with absolutely no shame
that Gilette straight up lied to you.

they promised you the best,
but let's put that to the test -
let's see what my wit and wisdom can do.

don't be sad, or even mad,
have patience,
and you'll be glad -
i'm the best stress buster you never knew.

and in good time,
with some reason and no rhyme,
you'll find that you'd like some of me too.

hi, it's me -
you probably don't know
that I live in the lanes that you'll never cross -
in life, or in your mind.

i make my homes
in all the corners that you couldn't bear
to care about,
except for appearances.

you don't have to apologize,
not that you ever will,
for forgetting that i breathe in and out
counting the seconds and minutes
since you thought of me -
and so my breathing would seem relaxed,
because i'm in no hurry,
and clearly,
neither are you.

hi, it's me -
i don't expect you to dramatically turn around
one fine day
and realize that i was always right here,
a part of me just hopes
that you'd realize
if i was ever missing
(but i know that's asking too much)

hi it's me -
you hurt me,
but that's okay -
i don't expect you to realize it,
because i've made that mistake
for far too long -
the one where i hope you'll come around.
(never works)

hi it's me -
and i know you won't answer,
but i'll say hi anyway,
and i'll hope anyway.

skeletons in my closet
find that it is rather easy
to scuttle and shuffle,
to twist and hide
among piles and piles of doubt,
and the odd dress or shoe.

they rattle and rumble,
shift and crumble,
only piping down
when someone passes by.
they fold and clatter,
chitter and chatter,
but are deathly silent
when you don't turn a blind eye.

skeletons in my closet
know just when to shrink,
when to dress down their size,
to save themselves
from indecent exposure,
or me
from a pair of extra-enthusiastic eyes.

skeletons in my closet
live together in harmony,
and i know i shouldn't be scared,
but they're the ones who know it all,
and i couldn't clean my closet
if i dared.

i have two(2) friends,
and we are all far apart,
we see different suns and moons,
and we breathe different air,
and we drink different water.

i have two friends,
and one wears a golden hat to all parties -
she will walk and talk
and see and be
with love and power and glamour.
her hat is magic,
it gives her the power to go crazy
and cause organized chaos.

i have two friends,
and one is a cool cat under a tree -
she needs words,
and she reads words,
and she loves to steal tea.
her eyes know what the universe doesn't-
and she hides wisdom
in the most ridiculous cat corners -
under fifteen books on a teapoy,
or in her sarod case.

i have two(2) friends,
and we all live together
in the great big unknown,
under the same abstract roof,
sleeping in the same abstract bed.
my two(2) friends and i built our home
on tears and twine,
on fears and wine,
theirs and mine.

my body already knows
that not-light lies behind
door handles that are cold
to the touch,
skin is not stupid.

the door swings open,
the crescendo of blood pumping
in my ears
screams to a stop.
there is quiet, but no peace -
there is silence, but no comfort.

wiry arms made of nothing
reach out,
hidden,
yet so clearly visible -
dancing around my ankles,
measuring my shoulders,
wrapping themselves around
the air that i
so sparingly
exhale.

there are eyes watching me,
their sight made sharper
by the absence of light,
finding shards of black
along which they trace their way
to me.

my skin revolts,
but my limbs aren't mine anymore.
my eyes are wide,
but my brain cannot see anymore.

the dark isn't a state or a condition -
it lives and breathes,
hunts and hounds,
it has fingers and a mind of its own,
it rests in shadows,
but also makes a home of its own.

people aren't afraid of the dark
for no reason -
they only fear
that it may just be more human
than they are.

to my dear ghostwriter,
or whosoever has to carry
the burden of my unfinished thought,

if you're nothing like me -
and i hope you aren't -
you'll make a list.
a list of the things you think
i would want to say
even when my voice is still not silent
and still echoes in sceptres
of my favourite words,
even when they come out of your mouth.
don't worry when the numbers
in your list start to crumble -
you see, even the ghost of my presence
does not like structure.

dear ghostwriter,
if you're nothing like me -
and i pray that you aren't -
your first step after writing
would be to edit what you just wrote.
thin peals of laughter will echo
in your ears when you do,
ignore them,
that's just me laughing at the idea
that raw thought
can be made more powerful
by taking pickaxes and hammers to it.

alas, if you do turn out to be
anything, anything like me,
dear ghostwriter,
know that you are allowed to wander,
your words are allowed to escape
and run amok,
you have the freedom
to do literally whatever the hell you want,
as long as your defiance is written down.
then, i suspect,
you'll begin to sound a lot like me.

yours,
in death and in shadows,
in spirit and in words,
shivani lalan.