I took my rusted pen, my useless words
and tried to write something beautiful for you.
Words filled with my love,
words that tasted
like all your favorite forgotten dreams.
But I found myself tracing
the only words on your skin.
I ended up rewriting your sorrow.
I ended becoming the face of your fears.
all the folded boats
spill out of my empty books.
the trees are on fire again.
my mind is on a another wild chase.
my hands light some more branches.
“the world is too cold for me”,
is all that i can say.
today, i am less sad than yesterday,
which makes everything that much more difficult.
today my sorrows have become facts.
my childhood reduced to folded boats in a trash can.
is there any other way to live than this?
There is something about this life.
This life with you
that makes me feel guilty.
It is the life that I am not supposed to be in.
I feel like I am trespassing
and any moment
someone would catch me
and taking more than I deserve
for thinking of a possibility of happiness with you.
The tissues I have cried into
are my excuses,
to hide the clutter of calls and love I forgot to return.
Sometimes it is too late to clear the mess I made.
It is more difficult to retain my will to clean it all up,
which sort of made me guilty
of creating another sad person.
But what is another tissue in another sea.
Everyone dreams of sailing into a brighter morning
leaving behind their darkness in another’s mind.
What if I am as selfish as them.
What is another ship, another selfish wish
amidst thousand such others-
all stranded on a water-less heart
all looking for a flood, instead of directions.
My night melts into dreams of you
and even when I loose my dream
I loose my sleep,
the night stays with me.
The broken strand of hair on my shoulder
could have been your tear
if it had not passed through this night
I live with,
if it was not born in the fragile dream
that you are.
The moon shines in my tear lined eyes.
On the edges of my nails that have lost their color.
Tonight once again
light falls on only on those bits of me
that are in no need for the love of a neutral god.
I wish I was empty-handed
at the end of our story.
But I am left with your memory
and anger at myself for
not being enough.
Life would have been easier
I sat on the stairs
long after they stopped shouting.
As the shout and anger
made room for themselves
in our lives.
As muted cries
became muted sighs.
I would look at the sky
and see no stars,
but only the tears
that pooled my eyes.
For long, a portion of time
got stuck in my heart
to remind of how lonely a child could be
in spite of having all.
The dust that lay on the page
that I left open long ago
is now a page on it’s own,
with a story its own.
I look at it and read
negligence and loneliness.
I read how things are forgotten
and how things are treated as things
by people who
live their life accumulating things
and rest half of it
replacing and forgetting them.
How people are treated on similar lines
How we come back to claim our possessions
when they can clearly exist better
There is a soft tune that
moves beneath your fingers
as they move over the pages
and words and worlds
that you will never see.
All the words of hope
that I whisper
to the you
who exists within these barriers
of skin, bones and sorrow.
I fear these words will be like the music
that doesn’t stop but fades,
dissolving into time and distance.
Like that music
it will pass from me to you,
from you to nothingness.