i8_m54r

so we beat on; boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past

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  • i8_m54r 1w

    7°C

    Today, I sat by a tall tinted glass window.
    The mountains ahead, almost purple.
    I wrote a page for you last night.


    I read it aloud and every word floated light as feathers out of the window, and it echoed.
    All the love i had ever lost on you, comes back to me.

    I wrote a page for you last night.
    The sun, let go of the sky for the evening.
    December, lets go of January
    And each of them seems to be saying to the other 'What you might have left of me, give it away'.
    And soon, soon I will let go of you too.
    ©i8_m54r

  • i8_m54r 1w

    Prelude

    Can we ever stay perpetually happy and stay forever with mirth in our lungs.
    Could we know everything, such so that every question becomes rhetoric.

    With happiness passing by like time.
    Maybe that is why we take pictures when we are happy.
    Maybe,Photographs are nothing but souvenirs of good times.

    The moments where time got stuck between two clear lenses.
    Photographs taken when just pressing the button was a waste of a pulchritudinous moment.

    The day spend at an ancient secluded beach.
    Brooding at the sea, where the hazy sky has conflated with the water.
    Starring at the waves, rippling towards the shore, your feet upon the uneven sand, the water soaked breeze and all those ephemeral things that makes you feel perpetual.
    Looking out at the sea, a denouement came, first to your eyes then stomach and then it probably reached the head.
    A denouement you should have written down.
    Instead, you forgot what it meant, looked, felt or sounded like.

    This is how happiness works.
    It gets stuck in a photograph where you're forever happy with a frame that's forever insufficient.
    This is how happiness gives birth to poignancy.
    This is how photographs grow old.
    Happiness is nothing but an innocent dalliance with life.
    ©i8_m54r

  • i8_m54r 16w

    Untitled

    My own love, tell me how can I convince them the beauty of not coming back.
    That the ancient stars are born everyday and every beautiful thing, wither away.

    My own broken love, tell me how I should convince them that I want to live inside a broken house.
    Close one door and it rattle the windows.
    Where the gutter looks like a broken smile.
    How would I convince them that history is only regrets and mistake.

    My own love, tell me how can I convince them the beauty of not coming back.
    That the ancient stars are born everyday and every beautiful thing, wither away.
    ©i8_m54r

  • i8_m54r 17w

    The ballad of an old man I saw walking on the street

    I would leave you notes in places where you will never look.
    The cobbled lanes where you would have danced under the street lamp on our way back home.
    In the coffee cup in which you would have drank morning teas.
    I leave you notes in places where you have never been.
    Inside a crack on the wall which I would have caused, in a house which would have been our home.
    Inside my closet, which never kept your clothes.
    I would leave you notes in places where you will never look.
    In a book that I had bought for you or upon the desk.
    I leave you notes that says words like these-' I kneel down and I hold two branches that resemble your hands!; I kiss your knees and think about all the places we would go'.
    ©i8_m54r

  • i8_m54r 17w

    A letter to the green star

    I wonder if a soul ever misses the body.
    If it ever stretches to find edges and misses
    wounds as it loves the release and asks whether being free is being
    alone.

    ©i8_m54r

  • i8_m54r 17w

    Epilogue

    The things that have not lasted, hold them out like saplings that couldn't grow in your garden.
    Watch it grow, everyday
    While you pass it.

    If I could hand my life to you, I would.
    I would hand it out like flyers.

    Everyone who couldn't love you.
    They'll remain in a certain light of the day.

    Everyone you couldn't love would bloom in a different garden.
    And one night when you would lay upon your stretched bedsheet, you'll find love oozing out. The love you couldn't hold anymore.
    A damn garden on your bed.

    I would hand out my life to you if you only take it.
    You have moved away slowly, slowly far away.

    So then we're torn between what to give and what to keep.
    The sun shines almost brilliantly behind the clouds.

    I would hand out my life to you if you only know how to nourish it.
    Plant me under your favourite tree.
    Come out and play with the dandelions on a day as this; when the sky would be so clear that heaven could be seen hanging above.
    ©i8_m54r