@karios The entire universe is corrupted by the glare of ignorance. What am I but a speck of ash burnt through the course? Sometimes, setting fire to a prudential mind is victorious; but for me? I'd wish my words rip out your heart and break it into uncountable fragments just to sew it piece by piece with my own threads of shallow emotions that I often fail to cascade. To let the flames of my feelings illuminate the universe is what an amateur as me could ever wish for than to try and drive a mere ignorance away. A wish, not more, nor less.
"You and I are monsters We'll not find another Cannot be together Lest we eat each other"
It seems as an esterified nostalgia; I was perhaps a mature adult of seven or eight when I used to spend my blistering summer afternoons upon that concrete roof by my grandma, doing absolutely nothing but feeding myself with peanuts and swelling up my little fingers incapable of splitting apart the hard covering. The sky was so blue back then, I once spotted a humongous wave of clouds rushing hurriedly above. It was all, what life was about.
Often tired from the June heat and melted skins sweating salty odours I used to sleep right upon the roof for an hour or two. Once my poor old lady wished to narrate a story to a child as me. I don't remember it as a whole; in parts it still fades against the walls of my head.
She told me, "Every creature falls in love." "Even birds? Do they marry?" Was my question. "Ah, yes they do. Come, I'd show you that nest the sparrows built by the balcony."
I held her hand and tried to imitate the tiny steps she took towards the other end of the balcony. She grabbed me by my waist and showed me down. There was, a sparrow nest, comfy and safe from any breeze so rude to intrude their family. But in that home sweet home, all that was visible to me was a sick sparrow, deprived of life. Life, equivalent to love.
And all I could manage to infer was an ugly doubt. Grandma took an unbalanced step back, and left without a wise word. You can debate me upon my childish memory, but I starkly remember how her cheeky smile blew away when she pictured the broken knots of the brutish love of the two birds beneath.
It's been months I've lost you. Most of those I see around; those I feel around myself are shattered themselves. Every other soul is, after all, cracked up inside. There are only a few of us, with wounds open to see, but not to be taken seriously; with eyes wet from yesterday, but we still don't cry, but if you ask me, I keep meaning to.
The worst part of losing you was the fact that, you're never coming back. Most of the times I pretend to be that fool who'd smile at every other prattle, but I hope you know too, a trench can only be prescribed by mud and not by a thud. You'd never know, if the thud was the irrelevant fall of yours into it or just a trap to lure you. What'd you do? You fell into it without a thought of choosing the levelled land around, and somehow, you've dragged me along. It's dark in here, and I am terribly scared, I've always been a coward hiding behind curtains, and it makes me cold, I saw you fall inside, yet down here, you are not near me to hold my hand.
It's been nights I've slept in peace; I've lost myself to you, every piece. It never hurt me more than today when someone asked me if I was alright, because now I don't even know what to reply anymore. "I'm fine?" Because I am not. "I'm not." Because I don't remember, if this is a lie I used to excuse myself or a truth I once uttered to someone closer than you. Am I alright?
"Would you ever let me in?" The doors are no more locked I say. Most often when I am left alone through the void of four walls, I no more hide under blankets to be scared of the clatter of an utensil in the kitchen. All of the doors of my room are open wide. Unhinged; banging as the wind blows over. I've been reduced to bones and flesh from being alive; I've been craving you to step inside and pick me up. It's not been long I felt your touch, but I'm already forgetting it. It's not been worth I tasted you over my lips, but I'm already breathing over it. Keep the guns loaded, I'd hide behind the covers, I've always been a coward, with those intense eyes.
I hear the crowds adore you so, but I hope you don't talk to them about me. Your grave was buried somewhere closer to your land, I ask you, can you breathe beneath? It must be dark inside the ebony, is it not? I've never been near to the dug earth, how abominable it seems to me, they pulled out the entrails of the earthern soil to stuff your soul suffocating beneath. Someone asked me among blues, "Do you still cry?" "Yes I do, someday, you too, shall try."
But the tears don't fall anymore. Either they dare to remain hanging by my lashed branch or they'd keep my eyes parched throughout the season.
"Don't make me leave, please. Don't make me go. I don't want to go." I heard you cry. Yet it took me a month to realise these two sentences. Every utterance of any syllable in your voice shivered my spine upto my existence and I could never fathom to continue. I heard you cry, a pain, I've never heard before. A pain I turned a deaf ear to. It seemed as if I bled my ears intentionally. Since then, I have lost my mind. I'd get annoyed at untying knots; at snapping colourful rubberbands; I often spill water over my shirts as I drink a precipitated glass. My inability to break peanuts out is a legacy that goes on. Avoiding mirror for days, I came across myself, and being honest, I don't know who that was, reflected back at me. My mother's touch feels foreign to me, what do you expect me to do? Where do I hide myself from the world? I feel, I'm unwell. Unfortunately, this disease, can't be cured. I've lost my intentions to dive into the eyes of the person who talks to me, for I can't dare to seek another soul with an injured gaze. These days, skies don't receive my sight; nor am I looking for rushing clouds, I'm too busy rolling over pebbles beneath my dusted shoes.
I was, never ashamed of you. It's just that, I have a tendency to push people away before they come anywhere closer. My eyes have turned weary tonight and the stars don't please me either. I think I am sick but never can I be certain. I don't want to hear your voice again, I don't want to see your face. But if you could be so kind, don't hear me, listen to me. I won't speak, but I know, you will listen, only you could.
Most often, they'd say it's a phase. It's a long phase, my wrist watch needed a recharge. I'm out to get a haircut soon, I am not sure if I'd get any prettier. And I've dumped those blue shoes, they were worn out anyways. I don't smell of your favourite flowers anymore.
The sparrow died after a few days. Right in that nest. Starving for the promised love that had died prior to her end. I now understand why that look flushed over my grandma's face. She's a creature too, and every creature falls in love.
All we hope is not to die after you do.
You never could complete me. But I'm thankful, you couldn't. At least, you could imagine a fantasy of a personality I never was; of a scent of a flower I never was named after; at least, you could fall in love with someone as a hint of me.
"Why couldn't you love me?" You never asked me. You never did. You just never did it any sooner.