I used to be a thief. Stealing clauses from everywhere and anywhere. Map of time passed, on the stones and walls, green sprouting out of them and I used to steal hope. Bury it with ink and cold fingertips. I used to wake the unheard fall underneath the maples, told them that I had lost summers longing for spring. And we would hold hands, walk to my doorstep, I would keep them safe in a white bed.
Some days I was a thief , sneaking into a battlefield, stealing love from the wallets of dead bodies on sunsets. Then I used to put words underneath my eyes and sleep.
On paper, I am in love. I am a sophomore. I hold hands. I jump off the cliffs holding my lover’s hand, into the river, cold but I am warm. Then it is twilight and I come back to the place where people buy love, on warm beds and also by losing bets.
I was a thief and I was blue and beautiful at my desk. The wounds used to bleed, once in a while like a red moon. It used to be storms, front line of world war 2, a house without roof and what not. It used to be my chest. I used to be beautiful at my desk. When I am done, my lips are crimson, like blood spilled on the sky of sunset. A sun sets. And it is just a moment or two. It is another monsoon and I see my pain ricochet.
Then on a morning I woke up with a tug inside my chest. Dews on my forehead and my armpits, drenched earth. It was a Lego house with all the stolen goods pilled up beneath my bed. It was summer. But the house was empty with me in it, like a winter arrived too soon. So I burned that down and planted a tree on it. A word fell from my eye and I let it roll. A compensation for all the stealing I did and did not embrace my poor soul.
Once in a while the tree smiles with a blossom and I save a part of me and not steal. Because it is okay if I don’t save myself daily like you pour tea from your favourite teapot. But when I sit at my desk once in a while with the bloom tucked in my braid, I want waves and thunder to stop and stare at my dancing hell.