the_brick_lady

shilwantkirti.wordpress.com

Engineer. Writer. Instagram : @the.brick.lady

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  • the_brick_lady 9h

    I will write you another letter
    And drop it at your doorstep.
    A little brown envelope,
    The perfect shade of an old romance.

    You will not be expecting it
    When you wake up that morning.
    You usual alarm will blare at it's usual time
    And your usual morning routine
    Will be everything you usually do.
    I am tempted to tell you
    That the sun won't hint at the day starting differently
    Nor will you brew your tea to the perfect flavor.
    You will walk to the door
    Keys and all
    Heading out for work
    Because as usual, you leave fifteen minutes earlier
    Than what Google maps tell you to.

    So, you almost step on it.
    One foot in the door frame
    One foot hovering above it,
    When you notice my letter.

    I write your name in an almost illegible scrawl.
    You see a few ink blots, dotted along the bottom right corners
    Of the envelope and you know I tried my best.
    You smile and run your fingers over your own name.
    That dot over the i, where I pressed too hard
    And the paper sunk a little too deep.
    Imagining me, giving up on the ink,
    And going back to the pencils.

    And unlike your newspaper habits, of reading untidyly
    You hesitate to open the envelope.
    Afraid, that one wrong cut somewhere
    Might tear the inside
    And the fragile bits of our love
    Will spill into this real nothingness.
    Like the light of the day
    Will fade the hue and the chip away at the ink.
    And that won't be fair to the sepia, will it?

    And, just like I predict in the begining of my letter
    You are sitting alone in your car
    With it's new car smell
    In the dull and the drab of a parking lot corner
    You finally exhale
    Open the envelope and sit down to read
    About us.
    All this while knowing
    That one fine day
    You'd wake up to my letter,
    Again.

    Read More

    I will write you another letter
    And drop it at your doorstep.
    A little brown envelope,
    The perfect shade of an old romance.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 9h

    Like the walls of Jericho
    My sanity comes tumbling down.
    A thousand Catholic choirs
    In an orchestrated symphony
    Eerily map the highs and the lows
    With their sweetest voices,
    The B-flats and the D-minors
    Wrap around the crescendo
    Like a engulfing sea
    On the three sides of a peninsula.
    There's nowhere to go
    But down.
    All you can do is loose yourself
    In the aria
    And wait for the part two.
    This is a two part choir, you see.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 1w

    The telephone rings
    And I waste no time
    In recognizing your soft voice
    Travel over a 1000 miles
    Via electronic lines over my head
    And under the sea.
    The silence is a good start
    To a conversation
    After exactly 4388 days
    And many a calendar on the bedroom wall
    Will testify
    The precision of that number.
    It's still the same baritone
    You recited your first poem to me in.
    Unsure
    We hear the same thoughts
    Run across our heads
    Via this worn out earpiece
    I clutch tightly in my hand
    Thinking of you.
    The calenders all come down now.
    You know
    You are coming home.

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    The calenders all come down now.
    You know
    You are coming home.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 2w

    I wonder
    How whorish
    We all are.
    Haggling for a fair price
    Of a part of our flesh
    Every morning
    Right from that first sip of bitter coffee
    You instantly make
    From your Morphy Richards machine
    To the last sip of whiskey
    That lulls you into a sleep
    While the glass tips sideways in your hand
    And startles your cat with the dregs in it.
    No
    We look at the sky emptily.
    Hollow wishes
    And prayers our mothers taught us.
    Kneeling by the side of our crusty beds.
    We have stopped wondering in miracles.
    And we are all optimists
    Chanting Murphy's under our breath
    Walking up the stairs
    To an office with a view
    Sorting mail after mail.
    Marking
    And tagging
    And filing sheets of that butter colored office paper
    The stack of which oddly
    Is the only measure for a good night's sleep.

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    I wonder
    How whorish
    We all are.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 3w

    I stand under the moon
    In an oversized tee shirt
    From one of the guys
    Who I brought home along with me.
    The burning end
    Of my sweet Mexican cigarette
    Crackles
    In the dead silent of the night
    Scaring
    As if, that the fire
    Will take you down.

    I think of everything wrong
    And everything right
    Looking out the window
    Watching a father
    Put his 3 year old daughter to sleep.

    We have big windows here.
    That bring the sun in the morning
    And the sight at night.

    And every drag of the cigarette
    Reminds me of you.
    How you first taught me
    To swallow the bitter
    And the pungent
    And then ease back into the chair
    Shift the cigarette in between the index and the thumb
    And ever so slightly
    Shut your eyes
    And let it go.

    Everything
    That the heart holds onto
    The smoke drags it out from your lungs
    And mixes with the fog that falls over the trees.

    The world wasn't simpler then.
    The world isn't simpler now.
    But
    With the cigarettes and sex
    I had you.
    You had me.

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    The world wasn't simpler then.
    The world isn't simpler now.
    But
    With the cigarettes and sex
    I had you.
    You had me.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 4w

    .There is something
    I'm trying to
    Fill.
    Classic 9 to 5 work routine
    Extended till 7 in the evening
    Followed
    By exactly three and one half
    Glasses of mojito
    Still on the farthest bar stool
    Closest to the speakers.
    I slur the lyrics
    To the earworm
    On my cab ride home.
    The driver helps me remind me
    That I almost forgot my jacket.
    I thank him profusely
    And parade my way up the
    Spiral stairwell
    To my house
    Fumbling for keys
    In the pocket of denim.
    I crash on the couch
    For exactly 38 minutes
    Because that's how long
    I feel entertained
    By the madness on my phone.
    There are meals ready to eat
    My favorite Arby's Mac and cheese
    And I pick the second packet from my shelf.
    Because why not.
    The microwave dings
    In 5 minutes 35 seconds.
    I like it a little crusty.
    I take my clothes off and lie under
    The fortress of blankets
    That keep my bed warm
    Eating a dinner
    So pathetic
    One shouldn't eat it.
    I read cheap fiction in bed.
    Books on neoclassicism that sound intelligent.
    Crosswords puzzles ripped apart
    From newspapers of the 90s.
    The only music is the ceiling fan
    And the dull flicker of the light in my room.
    And somewhere amidst that
    Ordinary night
    Morning arrives.
    I stop myself
    From hurling the alarm clock across the room.
    I wake up instead.
    Sitting in bed
    While the sun barely hits my face
    And warms my skin.
    Thinking anout
    Something that I'm trying to fill.

    Read More

    I read cheap fiction in bed.
    Books on neoclassicism that sound intelligent.
    Crosswords puzzles ripped apart
    From newspapers of the 90s.
    The only music is the ceiling fan
    And the dull flicker of the light in my room.
    And somewhere amidst that
    Ordinary night
    Morning arrives.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 4w

    Nothing better
    Than
    Reading a Bukowski
    As the 154 on the clock
    Races towards 2am.

    His wine
    And his radio
    Are my whiskey
    And songs
    Of a lost love
    Who now
    Sleeps
    In the arms of someone
    Prettier than me.

    His wife screaming
    From the kitchen
    Is my cat purring
    In the corner
    The ungrateful bastard
    Wants to run around
    All for a dead rat
    As my present.

    There is the Mahler's 9th
    That he writes about.
    And I am listening to The Doors
    I wish I could compare them both.
    But there is nothing sad about The Doors.
    And I haven't listened to any music
    By Mahler.

    There is a phone ringing somewhere
    And he ignores it.
    Trying to get his words through onto the typewriter.
    And I sit under the stars
    Pretending to be a writer.

    He hates the telephone.
    Loves a hit of scotch from the glove compartment of his car
    And curses at his IBM machine
    While typing away wildly on it.
    He talks about all the whores
    Who steal his beer cans
    And yell at him
    Everything he already knows.

    I hate my computer.
    Love my whiskey, so much so
    I gulp it before the ice in there
    Gets a chance to water it down.
    I still hate my computer.
    As I type away wildly on it.
    But
    There are no men.
    You see
    I gave my heart to one
    And he ran away with it
    To a small town in South Alabama.

    Read More

    There is the Mahler's 9th
    That he writes about.
    And I am listening to The Doors
    I wish I could compare them both.
    But there is nothing sad about The Doors.
    And I haven't listened to any music
    By Mahler.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 6w

    The sky is silver today.
    There is an eclipse
    Tonight.
    And I remember
    You staying up
    With me
    600 miles away
    Watching the moon sneak under the shadows.

    I am trying to find new words
    For your handsome.

    You once said
    You wanted to read one of Neruda's verses
    On a starless night
    Sitting on an abandoned terrace of a building
    Somewhere in the middle of the city
    Wrapped in a blanket
    With me

    Your picture
    Lies face side down
    Between the cover and the last page of my diary.
    Your smile
    Makes up for the bad light exposure.
    And I try really hard
    Not to open my diary backwards.

    There are stories
    About you
    In my head.
    Brown shoes and blue pants
    And metro stations
    And workday lunches
    Spent talking about how
    I had a brainwave
    And how you sat on the edge of your ideas
    Not able to think anything.
    Narratives
    Starting with the fall of the light
    And ending in another
    Loop of starlight
    And moon shine.
    Battling insomnia
    And sleep
    With out weak arms.

    And I remember
    Your verse
    The first time ever
    You sent me a raw uncut
    Recitation of your neatly put
    Poem.
    I smiled and smiled
    On my walk back home
    And replayed it fourteen and a half times
    Till my phone ran out of battery.

    Afghan matchmakers
    Say
    The voice is more than
    Half of the love.

    I don't remember anything
    Other than
    You humming our song
    In my ear.
    What night was that?
    One of summer's hottest
    The day was long
    And the shadows, longer.
    Something by The Beatles
    Played through the short night
    Followed by
    One of your other verses
    Mumbled incoherently
    In exact precision
    Followed
    You saying my name
    At 237 am in the morning
    In your sleep.

    But you don't forget, do you?

    Read More

    You once said
    You wanted to read one of Neruda's verses
    On a starless night
    Sitting on an abandoned terrace of a building
    Somewhere in the middle of the city
    Wrapped in a blanket
    With me.

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 6w

    Saturday nights
    Are spent
    Sitting at store windows
    Enjoying a meal for one
    Watching people drive home
    From an extra day at work
    Tiny little smiles on their faces
    Navigating through traffic
    With their car seats warmed
    And the music soft.

    The guy waiting on my table
    Smiles me one of his sweetest smiles.
    That's what I like about this city.
    People here
    Don't know what they want.
    But they go after something
    Like an aimless shot
    In the middle of an afternoon
    That hits some poor animal anyway.

    We talk about how I used to wait tables
    At a Five Fries on Jay Street.
    While I eat my taco elegantly.
    Something I have learnt over time
    Here
    And I'm thinking of the Monday morning
    While scrolling mindlessly
    Through a list of matches
    All dating apps algorithms on my phone
    Thinks are perfect for me.

    He says he has another table to take care of
    And refills my glass on extra sweet orange juice.
    There are families out there of
    Brat kids
    Throwing a tantrum
    For not getting their favorite candy.
    Moms busy looking at store fronts
    And dads pushing shopping carts.
    There's a balloon guy too.
    But nobody wants one.
    There's a queue at Krispy Kreme though.
    Something about warm donuts on a chilly 19 degree evening.
    Maybe I will have one too.

    I am done.
    And there is still a napkin unused.
    And I walk out of the restaurant
    Looking at the moon looking down on me.
    There was an eclipse yesterday.
    I took my current read and stationed myself
    In the balcony
    Watching us shadow the moon.
    Cold and bare foot
    I walked on the marble floor
    Inching myself over the railing
    To see the moon
    Go dark.

    Everything's incoherent all of a sudden.
    Even this.
    But you understand, don't you?

    Read More

    Everything's incoherent all of a sudden.
    Even this.
    But you understand, don't you?

    ©the_brick_lady

  • the_brick_lady 7w

    How sad should the night be
    For you to be sleeping next to me.

    There is a dull ache in your heart
    And your eyes seem lost
    Everything's around you
    But something is not.
    Is that what you are looking for?
    In every strand of her hair
    A smile of yours,
    Not to be found anywhere?

    ©the_brick_lady