I remain an iteration of past mumbles
No future do I yearn to.
I'll tell you about a "Once upon a time"
Instead of the coming blue.

In no present have I remained,
Only in "once" and what if
I sing of the begone days
In the tavern of lost grief

Here I pour wine to newer cups
Which time forgets to brew.

The rugose skin has helped me see better.
And every time, as now, I close my eyes,
The dreams become less vivid of your tender,
And I can see behind those sweet old lies.

The music gets me going; I wonder where it leads.
I still keep those **** letters up my sleeve,
And notes that kept me warm are burnt by your own words.
They don't tell any stories anymore.

Salient pace, turned to a race,
Keeps me moving still and in time.
I invented a machine that would make me old and real;
You, I left as young and past behind.

Someday, I'll sit by the river
Where all the promises were made.
And as I close my eyes, I won't make a sound,
Because there won’t be a flicker
Of my thoughts trailing away
To the day I said "I want you" in reply.

I’d like to find the words
to cut right through the muck,
but when it comes to you
you know that I’m just stuck,

I ready up the blades
and soap clean my hands,
to work toward the heart
no matter where it lands—

All the things—
We said—
Will forever be dead—

But I’ll hold on—
Instead—
You’ll always live inside my head.

Birthdays and gravity, the cause of it all
The older I get the more often I fall
Too old to have nice long hair
Too heavy in the middle to fly through the air

Birthdays and gravity, you are slowing me down
Old and heavy, I’m stuck to the ground
Too many candles and too much cake
Birthdays and gravity, that’s all it takes

tracing strings backwards
pinning moments on a board
only too become entangled
      by     a      feeling  
that   shouldn’t    need      remorse  

unravel the ties
to keep from fraying
weave     in    and    out
to  stop   each   cravings

knit my words into your brain
stitch your chords into my skin

intertwine to rewind time


reclaim  
respire  
consider  
desire


rinse. repeat.


live in denial
    or  
start   a    fire


reclaim  
respire  
consider  
desire


rinse. repeat.


strike the match
stoke the fire

burning bridges
(so i thought)
it doesn't matter
(an afterthought )


its getting late
it's time to think


              (for)   a   lot     more

                       laughter    (a  love   long  after)

-

Old woman,
you shuffle past the bus stop,
coat dragging like the years you’ve worn,
eyes clouded,
face soft like pages turned a thousand times
and almost forgotten.

You walk like you’ve been walking
your whole life,
through the noise,
through the quiet,
through the people who left
and the ones who never came.

And me?

I just sit here.
Watching.
Like a ghost who hasn’t even died yet.

Because I don’t think I’ll make it there.
To where you are.
To where your bones ache but
your breath still rises.
To where your silence means survival.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow old.
Not like you.
Not like anyone.

They say ”you’re young, you’ve got time,”
but time feels like a hallway I can’t find the end of.
Like a clock with no hands,
ticking in a room no one else hears.

My days are…
blurry.

Tight in the chest.
Heavy in the head.
Like I’m dragging a life behind me
that I never asked for.
Like I’m underwater
but smiling at everyone above the surface
so they won’t ask
if I’m drowning.

Old woman,
how did you do it?
How did you live long enough
to forget some of the pain?
To bury people,
and still get up to buy bread
and feed birds
and water plants that will outlive you?

I can’t even imagine next week.
Let alone
next decade.
Let alone
wrinkles and soft sweaters
and stories that begin with
”When I was your age..”

I’m scared that I won’t get that far.
And part of me doesn’t care.

Is that awful?

Some days I hope I disappear quietly.
Without the drama.
Without the note.
Just.. a light going out
that no one noticed was flickering.

But you,
you’re still here.
And I don’t know if that’s strength
or just what happens
when you forget how to quit.

Old woman,
you’re not my grandmother.
You’re not anyone I know.
But watching you
makes me ache
for a future I don’t believe belongs to me.

I don’t want pity.
I don’t want advice.
I want to feel something that tells me
I might still be becoming
instead of slowly unraveling.

So I sit here.
And I watch you.
And for a moment,
just a moment
I imagine
that maybe
somehow
I’ll last long enough
to forget how much this hurts.

That maybe one day,
someone will watch me,
and wonder how I made it.

-Anvita Dharma

The fabrics of time are like a silky material.
Once it's gone, it's gone.
It slips through my hands and falls so effortlessly on the floor.
It plops down
Restless.
I try and try and ache and ache to pick it up.
Just to feel its soft warmth on my skin again but too late.
It has fallen, it is still falling.
I tilt my head back and see it is falling deeper and deeper.
It is getting later and later.
When will it ever stop escaping my grasp?
When does time ever stop falling?
It slips from grasp just out of my reach.
Just a bit too late.
When will it ever harden?
When will time freeze and when will it be in my grasp again?
I can feel the heat rising.
The tension is boiling.
The silk is almost at my finger tips.
Once again I feel its warmth enlighten my hand.
It sits in my palm ever so elegantly,
Just waiting to fall.
Waiting to be lost.