Lingerache - (Noun.) The ache that hopelessly lingers.
i) your memory crawls, seemingly seamlessly, on my skin, tonight. lingers in the hollow of the bones that can no longer hold the weight of regret, echoing inside. your memory arrives, unannounced, and quietly makes its way upto a cold corner of my flimsy heart.
they say, even though we cannot remember everything consciously, we never lose any of our memories.
I wonder how I still live somewhere in the back of your mind; like a dusty book you no longer read, an unfinished poem left abandoned in the middle, or a song that sits tired in your playlist, always there yet never chosen.
ii) you come back to me in whispers of the callous winds on evenings when it gently roughens my wounds that never knew how to heal.
I've named my scars after you.
iii) I remember how I gathered parts of you, slowly on brumous days of winter when the sunlight fell, softly on our frail skins. there is no summary of you yet.
how reluctantly you gave to me all that you had and I gave to you all that i could. after you, I am a mere remnant now. a part of the whole that was once us.
iv) they taught me, when I was child of obscure sorrows that how I was, what I worship. so, I placed you on the pedestal of all my hopes and you housed my ancient faith.
I named my love for you - devotion.
v) on nights like these, when your smile lingers in my dreams and your voice rakes my being with regret, so effortlessly, I hold on to the essence of all the memories I made with you and the hollowness of the love we once shared.
what are we if not just bits and pieces of people we've met and the memories we've kept?
vi) in this reckless ache of familiarity, you come back to me one day. longing for what we had. your eyes filled with remorse, you caress my face with calloused hands of our past; and say how you haven't moved on even after all these years of dull agony, burdened by the life that ought to be lived.
you come back and tell me how all your attempts to efface my face from your memories, to wash out your skin from my touch and to unhear all my drunken apologies were hopelessly futile. you tell me how you ache for me on nights that refuse to dawn.
vii) I smile at you, and my helplessness slithers down my eyes.
My breaths are the spaces of the poem I wrote to you - except it is an obituary. My throat is a parched graveyard of all things I wished I could have told you - except my mouth is a tombstone with your name etched onto it.
I tell you how much I am in love with the memories we gave birth to, tender and soft - And how your words are a weight, heavier than these fragile bones of mine can handle.
Because my love, if you're a god, then this is blasphemy.
For I am in love with the memories I made with you, But not in love with the 'you' I made them with.
Vincent Van Gogh, out of placid serenity, once said, "What is done in love, is done well."
So, I smile, in all my brokeness.
I often wander in this cold lane of bygone memories and fragments of the whole that was once us. The orange sky, in all its loneliness, hangs above my tired head, like a burden meant to be passed on. We were born when a drowsy sin made love to blithe nonchalance; orphaned long before we could ever learn to wear this tender remorse like our own skins.
Your laughter, like crackling ice, echoes in the hollow of my bones, tonight. I wear your innocent smile on my face and my fragile lips quiver with the unbearable weight of your name. You are the figment of my imagination that makes the callousness of the reality seem unreal.
My wavering shoulders are broken, carrying your memories. Your eyes are waves of auburn and I've always been bad at keeping afloat. Your skin tastes like gold, shining in sunlight, and this winter has seeped deep within the realms of my soul. I melt into us, at your single touch, tonight.
You're the sweet breeze and I am the fragrance of a newly born bud. I am scattered, scattered, scattered in you.
I chant your name like a sacred prayer. Why does this barren mouth of mine taste like all the things I've ever lost? The sky has cracked open, and it looms over my hopeless existence like a red shroud, mourning the slow death of a love, perhaps, done well, once.
Van Gogh's last words, in all his wretchedness, were, "The sadness will last forever."
the night sits too heavy on the frail shoulders of my dreams. my whims disintegrate into a myriad shards, and you come back to me in whispers of the tired wind, as it embraces me into endless memories.
In these moments of quiet, when sleep lingers on these heavy eyelids of mine, I often visit the ruins of us in the hope to find pieces of us, in the wreckage.
I am a mispronounced name for all the regret seeping in your veins when you undress out of your skin at night. you go to bed wearing the love that once was, the love we once lost.
the broken shards of my desires pierce the pale skin of dawn as it birthes daylight and agony. my days are colored in the monochrome of your absence. they sit on the heaviness of my chest and move achingly slow around me.
the silence hangs in the air like loss.
the evenings, like fractured memories, loom over my existence, reciting an eulogy on the tenderness of my whims. the fabric of the universe is stiched in the hues of my longing for you. the yearning for what we used to be. the emptiness lays still with me till the darkness slowly crawls into the mundanity.
the nights sits too heavy on the broken shoulders of my dreams; i whisper your name like an erasure poem from dusk to dawn. why does my mouth tastes of sawdust and remorse?
I shed down this pale skin tonight. your laughter echoes in the hollow of my bones. you come back to me in these moments, in all unadulterated essence.
Jonathan Safran writes how he regrets that, "It takes a life to learn how to live".
Dust particles swirling around in a storm. a painful battle scar on your pale arm. an eternal agony. a lump in your throat. an accumulated amount of regret in your eyes and a deposition of guilt, binding you to this transience; not letting you succumb to the bitter destiny you've chosen for yourself long ago.
I am a crumpled leaf, lying abandoned, on the barrenness of the soil. Left over somewhere in my parchedness. trampled, walked over. not forgotten but never even remembered.
I am but a mistaken word in articulate paragraphs of artistic beauty. and indelible stain left over by time. blackened and crossed over; easily replaceable. I still leave an ineluctable mark behind. an inauspicious omen.
I am an empty heartbreaking cacaphony in the world that sways in cadence. a wound roughened by callous gusts of wind. your pulse against the bluntness of the blade. veins, overflowing with tainted crimson.
I am agony.
The ache in its entirety. A curse fallen into itself. Heart-wrenching verses of poetry. a blurred picture sitting in your gallery, a discarded memory. a forgotten past. I am an inevitable dusk in all its perpetuity while you've yearned for light all your life. I am all this and more but most of all, I am sorry.
As for years, I've built these walls around my heart. This bitterness- the coating on the walls, my ignorance - the hinges upon gates, sturdy and ever so strong, covering this hollow cavity stocked inside these shattered bones- this ribcage of mine.
And then there's you.
The masterpiece of an artist. with hope filled in the corner of those childlike eyes. with your contagious smile pouring in my life like sunshine on a brumous day of winter that goes on and on. Your tenderness terrifies me to the very depths of my turbulence, your innocence incinerates my ignorance, your exuberance shakes me to the very interior of my soul. How do you do it?
Don't look at me with those eyes. don't ask how I imagine my dream house to be. or what do I remember about my childhood. don't ask me about those dreams that I've long abandoned. don't bring me cotton-candy dreams. sunrises. hope. and love.
Because if I touch you, you'd crumble and reduce to ashes. galaxies inscribed in your hands would cover themselves in an eternal darkness, the constellations in your eyes would shatter into myriad stars, breaking one after the other.
You are a ballad of hope, I am an elegy of loss.
So, let me be. Let me come off as someone insolent. Rude. Arrogant. What not. But please don't look at me with those eyes of yours, piercing right across me, my heart laid bear. Don't accept my soul in all its nakedness.
Don't give this vulnerability a name.
Let you be - you And I - me.
You - a minstrel of hope. an embodiment of dreams. a rose, sweet in its fragrance; beautiful in its immortal glory. And me - a bard that sings of the destruction that wreck houses. an eulogy read at a funeral.
I am but a crumpled leaf, let the wind take me away.
this loneliness tastes like my skin, now this agony feels like the bones that cradle me to sleep every night; i am a discolored autumn leaf shed unceremoniously by the branches of a tree, that stands tiredly against the bleached scars of the sky. i lie crumpled on to the ground, spineless. with these broken ribs, that can no longer support the mess that i have carved myself in.
cloaked with nothing, but bare fear, that looks like resistance; i have dressed up this stature with puncture wounds. for these disgraceful bones cannot hold the frame of my body anymore.
as this anxiety somersaults in the pit of this stomach, i tie my fear into knots, and make a long rope out of them, that my voice now uses to climb up and down with, from a parched throat, to a barren mouth.
the desperation chokes up my windpipe; soot turning to dust everytime i pretend to breathe I reek of drunken apologies for sins I am yet to commit.
i gather all the shards, of your memories - piece by piece, from the folds of this pale face, and put them up in the bags underneath my eyes. no wonder the baggage of the past hurts, everytime i try to sleep.
i try to let go of this breath that sits rather tired on my lungs. straining with passing time as my knotted fear seems to strangle me in the stillness of the night, you're holding the rope from one end, my love, as i hold it from another.
I am just your part now. Meaningless without your being. Incomplete on my own. My days are shadowed by the moments we spent together and my nights are another painful reminder of the shallowness I feel. I see the world through your eyes. Blue being the colour I often wear now, and I hear the words lingering in the silence, just like you used to. I walk like you now, slow and cautious.
My existence is shaded by your essence. I wear your fragrance on my skin, your breaths are laded on my lungs, I hide you behind the longing that I write about. I hide you in the corners of my eyes, so that no one can see you. I hide you on my lips, and I seldom smile, and you lie with me in moments of stillness when my soul is drenched with guilt.
I have shed my skin and my bones ache carrying all the weight of the memories that made us. My voice shivers and I am too afraid of it now. So, I never speak.
My mouth is just a cemetry of all the things I don't say.
I remember every detail. I remember every thing about you. All your lopsided smiles, your way of walking, the sound of your laughter, your what-did-I-even-do's and your words. I remember to not forget. After all, these memories are all I am left with. I don't want to lose track of you until these callous waves of time sweep away everything I have and I drown in the water of my eyes.
You're everything I had, everything I lost, How can I forget you?
I am just you now, having long forgotten what I used to be like. The nostalgia of us engulfs me whole and I meet you in the stanzas of my poetry. I empty myself to fill up these blank pages. To write about the universe taking turns in your eyes, and the cosmic dust resting in the corners of your beautiful soul. I write about how you made me a poet because you were poetry.
But this is not poetry.
I am just missing you and I know you cannot come back. You don't have to.
You left before I could give you reasons to stay.
So, remember that I had you. Parts of you that were mine. Parts of you that'll stay mine.
I used to be me. But I am just your half now. A mere remnant of the whole that was you.
For you are in me, more than I'll ever be in myself.
Even the air spoke your name - softly, gently tearing my heart. Every breath I took, was just another reminder that your presence was more alive, than my own shadow, which hung like a dress on my body. I was more yours, than I was mine, how could you be forgotten?
I hold on to a crushed flower. It's slowly withering away, in these hands of mine. Breathing its final in these moments of quiet.
The sky is a bruised blue. A fabric of scars, stiched together by a myriad sighs and some wishes scattered across, hopelessly.
All of a sudden, I remember your love for blue. Your perfect denim. Streaks of blue in your dishevelled hair. Your favourite color to put on. Your favourite word: Melancholia. The flower you adorned your home with. The color the vast sky is dyed in. Hues and shades of the universe you breathed in. Blue.
I smile. My empty heart too heavy to carry. I wonder how you were a shade of blue too, in my life. I could never tell you this, though.
For when you gifted my sadness. My shivering hands held it as if it was the most sacred thing ever. I kept it safe; tucked in my heart.
I never did mind my world being coloured in shades of agony, only if you held the brush.
I smile, my heart shattered across the ground I stand on.
I reach home, trembling under the weight of all these breaths, my lungs are tired of. I open my calloused hand.
Crushed inside is a flower. Dying, it reeks of a frangrance, my senses are too familiar with.
And it dawns upon me.
Staring at me, in its shade of dark blue, is a beautiful hydrangea.
I remember this flower; whose name I scribbled across my notebook, mindlessly. Only because you adored them, so much.
I look down - Hydrangea, dying in these empty hands.
And I hold on to it.
Just like I held on to you.
Never able to see the tragedy, beyond what they call love.
For they never tell you, hydrangea reeks of poison.
“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you're going to mess up sometimes, it's a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you're going to mess it up. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything - they're your true best friends. Don't let go of them.
And baby, I hate to say it, most of them - actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can't give up because You'll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn't mean you're gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don't, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life's a beautiful thing and there's so much to smile about.” ― Marilyn Monroe
I do not think I posses the clarity of thought required to answer a question as simple as cheking a yes for breathing and still, simultaneously, as complex as rehabilitation for a chainsmoker who doesn't understand the 'why' behind living.
My days haven't been linear for as long as I have been a master of my days, and before that, my days have been a reflection of my mother's lack of linearity. I am so many good days but bad nights, and I am so many loud nights but silent days; my definition of good changes with every sunset. My life is a culmination of so many undefined dimensions and interpretations, which aren't always my own, that more often than not, I am barely keeping up with the systematic documenting of all its aspects.
I am so many nights of wishing upon a falling star merging with a craving for a starless sky; I am so much longing merging with avoidance; I am so much ambition merging with incompetence, and I am so much care merging with neglect. I have never been good at deconstruction, and they didn't teach me how to be sure about anything and I feel so lost in this overly romanticised grey.
And, when I tell you that I am fine, you nod with an understanding that's almost palpable and reflect the words that felt like betrayal on my tongue. I wince internally as they graze my skin and rub against it like sand paper.
So, I take a knife out of my pocket and carve half a moon on your mouth and mine, and ask you the question again.
You tell me that you are fine, again, but this time, the words are tender in their caress, like a lie you don't expect me to acknowledge, like a lie that's not to be perceived as a lie. Your eyes tell me that the words no longer taste like betrayal to the self.
And I, forcefully ignorant, choose an easy deconstruction of a question I don't fully understand, and echo the f-word in all its vulgar glory. Fine.
i asked him of what happened? He told me he was fine. But struck by curiosity I asked him again He said he needed time
( but don’t people need time when they need to console themselves)
I told him i could help, say better, or could just sit quietly But he spilled he doesn’t wanted to get better And I murmured and gave him a glass of water to which he replied and interrogated if it contained life because that’s what makes people die nowadays I seeked him again, This time, he told he would tell me, “but can we wait for her to come?” I didn’t know who, I didn’t know when, how or why? So i enquired of a letter he clutched to But papers and inks never were compatible enough in hiding emotions. I read it.
21st feb 2017 Thursday 11:11
I know it will hurt when all pretty nights and dreamy days would end and blankets will free them of cozy darks. When tiny branches would stop growing for they saw how an infinity ended. My mind is etched with rusted swing sets of your backyard which were stores of Happiness, of the lamp house we made love in and of everything which had a touch of us. But this is it, i knew it is going to end one day and I won’t get to tell you that i am there or give a mere hug. I never had less of you for you were a hopeful rain to my barren land. Memories will make you cry, mostly ours, And somehow you could resist and shield yourself from the pain but none of it will leave you until you give it a place in your facade and let it change you. Your chambers will free you of me and they will get a new infrastructure but bricks would still be made of me , and anyhow i will be there. Of all the evenings and mornings i have spent hurling around annoyingly, you will remember the last the most but i am sorry for you may not get to know of which is yours last. I am sorry for leaving, It is tragic. It is hell. Leaving you letting you go. But sorry I won’t ever be there to ask you of how it feels to feel the same or even worse. But i hope you understand. I hope you do.
Yours... Still? Sorry.
I was gloomy while i read all of it, or maybe I didn’t for it was his belonging, wholly and completely. I didn’t know of what he needed. But i sat there, For, you get to hurt people, you get to break their hearts, but no, you don’t get to leave them when they’re vulnerable. I hope you understand. I hope you do. But he asked if we could wait for her to come?