The risk of losing oneself while trying not to own the other person
Versus the reward of surrendering an unlived life
In the hands of the very same person
Its like a voluntary masochism from both sides
Comes together to form a common noose
Choking two throats till they either
Cough out the phlegm of rejection
Or eventually swallow the chaos whole.
Having options was always a tricky business
For it brings out the worst in us
In the most real ways possible
And the more we get away with
The more powerful we feel
Like bubble collectors
Who always have space for more.
But then options are cunning
They create their own world of words
And then fit in perfectly like punctuations between them
They know too well that the ink dries off quickly
And so do the tears
Wetness is not always a regret
And salty sometimes tastes better than loyalty.
Also they know that happiness is a filthy voyeur
Who peeks through your bedroom keyhole
And darts away at the first sound of a step on the door.
And when we question the options
They audaciously answer back
And throw new options at us
So that we are exposed to their pandemic
But show no signs or symptoms.
Now the delirium is slowly taking over us
And we too have started speaking their contaminated language
And finally turn to new options for the cure.
The choice is again absurd
Either numb down with a strong dose of heavy philosophy
Or gulp down the killer silence.
How many words would fit into your cleavage
Before they are sharp enough to drive a wedge through your heart?
Is my name one of those words?
Can distances be really bridged by a few extra inches?
Which state comes earlier,
The one where you stop flowing
Or the one where you stop feeling?
What are your escape plans
When there is a stampede at one end
And a precipice on the other?
Why is realization always a late messenger
And delivers the news only after the war is over?
Or how come the skin is such a brittle armor
That it falls to the blades of seduction without a fight?
Why do some moments last exactly as long as
Those disappearing images in your messenger
That cannot be salvaged without taking a guilty screenshot?
What happens to the trust that dissipates or was it never there?
Maybe its all too plain
Too vanilla to be explained
Too white and spotless
For us to resist taking a lick.
But its cold enough to freeze the taste buds
When left to melt on the tongue.
The options talk too much
They deserve this tongue treatment
And meanwhile as they struggle to speak
Perhaps we may try out some new flavors.