You ask me to wish, wish upon dying lights, upon shooting stars, as if those celestial bodies up there have got no better job than give a fuck about me from light-years afar. You hold me close and melt yourself against me. Kiss me in gasps and breaths, darlin' don't you see? I let your fragile fingertips tingle my parched skin only to cool my seething flesh scarred with seventeen sins. And after the midnight when you scoot yourself closer slowly snuggling me in and I sneak out of your embrace saying your warmth is way too suffocating, I see you turning over and mumbling in your sleep, "One day you'll love me and baby, I've never minded waiting." I look at your peaceful face, your eyelashes gleaming under the moonlight, I rest my head over your heaving chest and slowly close my eyes. I know not, how to love you and even less of how to let you love me. We truly love someone only when we set them free. So let's just sit beside an ocean with a handful of pebbles. And when I plunge them in, Will you count the ripples?
And some of your stories will end in a way that you won't get to pour your drunken heart out to strangers narrating why it ended without beginning. The subjects will walk away leaving behind shards of their fragrance with you trying to clutch onto them with all your might. You won't get to flip the pages of their journals and wonder why was your name lost among a sea of others. You won't have a sad letter on your bedstand to read under the lamplight with a cup of hot coffee. And most of all, You won't get to weep over the indifference of your characters. They will end and that's about it. You see, not all goodbyes are dead ends. But, they're ends anyway. Sometimes, of stories and sometimes, of a part of you.
I am scared. I'm scared cause everyone around me seems to be becoming okay with goodbyes, slowly and gradually. They tell me ends are beautiful. Sad, yes. But beautiful. They've romanticized the endings that were never meant to be. Heck! Are endings ever mean to be? I see them glamourising the goodbyes through poetries and sonnets and stories and songs. I see them ignoring the voids the goodbyes left in them as if they weren't knots burdening their hearts. I see them encapsulating the entire chaos that this feeling is within a line as simple as "somethings aren't meant to be".
I am scared. I'm scared cause I feel I'm turning into them. I've started hiding myself behind phrases like, "unended beginnings are meloncholically beautiful." I'm scared that one day, years down the line, while sitting at a beautiful cafe, there'll be a gentle tap over my shoulder and I'll turn around to a face I had bidden a reluctant goodbye to, and I'll be able to ignore the tightness in my chest and smile at them. I'm scared that I'll heave a sigh at our memories and tell myself, "it's okay, somethings aren't meant to be". And I'm scared that I'll mean it.
I've learnt to say goodbye in way too many languages and love, in way too less. I seldom let my heart grow roots within a city for the interim homes made out of people are easy to love and easier to leave. I find beauty in the way a sandcastle allows itself to get perished when it refuses to let go of the wave. You see, I'm a lover of poetry and tragically or not, I rarely find it in the cackles of spring. I'd rather prolong the autumn, just to kill a few more leaves, just to exalt a few more deaths. And if you tell me, you'd still find ways to love me, let me tell you, I will break your heart just to break mine a little bit more, just to draw a rhyme, more beautiful than before.
We've been beside the fireplace for almost two hours now. Watching the flames blazing up and down and talking about avengers while sipping on hot chocolate. The soft Korean quilt draped around us has started loosening up and the flames have started dying out and I'm still not even close to explaining why I'm team Thanos because you just wouldn't settle for any explanation I throw at you.
I tell you avengers suck because it's hilarious to watch how your face contorts as it gets worked up. You grab my face and tell me to take my words back and the dark room around us falls silent except for the clock ticking away and the crickets stridulating beside the crackling fire. You gaze into my eyes. You lean in. And then two inches away from my face, you stop. I see a series of emotions flicker through your helpless eyes before a realization sets in. You sigh, graze my cheek with a thumb and tell me it is time for bed.
You know I'm in love with you. In the most twisted yet sincere way. You knew it when I let you have my share of cheesecake last Sunday because you were upset that yours got finished. You knew it when we rain danced to 'Moves like Jagger' last night because you missed home. You knew it when I stayed up all night trying to cool your burning forehead with a wet handkerchief. You know it everytime you flip and I tell you that it's okay. You know of every little way I love you in.
Okay. This is a very old piece that I haven't been able to write an ending to, even after trying numerous times. Whatever I think of somehow feels out of place. So, would anyone like giving me a suggestion? An idea for a concluding paragraph that might wind it up in a more complete manner, maybe?
Or should I just leave it like that? Unfinished. :D
I do not know if forever is a myth or if it's simply mortal. I know not if heartbreaks are or aren't inevitable. But, If it's a given that love, one day, shall succumb to it's own dearth. That all you ever hoped for shall come crashing down to earth. If it's a given that one day, the very arms that embraced you will fail at being enough. I hope, I hope on that day it's you, you who gets to fall, fall out of love.
Right handed. You didn't run across the turf. You never ran. You glided. With an effortless grace. Your racquet was a whiplash, and you moved with a swagger rarely seen before or after.
[The first time I saw you play: 1st June, 2005]
9th September, 2011- This was the day I realized you weren't invincible. That you could snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Yes, you broke my heart on my birthday. (and a million other hearts)
28th January, 2017- Maybe because my head was telling me that you would never win again. (Even though my heart never stopped believing) And then you did win, and you and I (and a million others) shed tears of joy.
14th July, 2019- This was your chance at immortality. Maybe you let it slip because you were so close, because you could almost taste triumph. Life is cruel, but then you already knew that. So you smiled beneath the pain as they handed you the silver and not the gold.
[The 3 times I cried when you played]
Sport isn't really art, but you are the closest thing to an artist I know. There have been others who have been better at the business of winning tennis matches, but nobody else has left me slack jawed or made me go "WOW" as frequently as you did. (And still do)
There's someone in my head but it's not me, my fingers are waves sunk beyond the bottom of the sea there's this madness, this sweet insanity that creeps in like a shaft of light begging me to rebel, shun the ordinary but I walk the walk of the blind my feet follow the preordained fates they slice my bones, numb my mind there's salvation at the bloodstained gates.
They took your sight, left you dead but couldn't wash the starlight from your eye from beyond the grave you rose instead to pry your share before saying goodbye there was fire, a whole lot of screaming while you watched from beyond the flame there were tears, a whole lot of dreaming unsuspecting puppets in a rigged game.
So when I fall, you dare not cry there is a silent strength in letting go a whole lot of truth, a handful of lies wrapped within secrets you'll never know so I walk where the land is scorched where they don't have any joy to sell my heart is lost, my soul lies torched I trace the path to the meadows of hell.
The line "there's someone in my head but it's not me" is credited to Roger Waters
Your voice is a song that floats through a rainbow, splitting open a sky shaded by an orange tinted sun the heat scythes through your skin scorching your arms and you carry a faded crimson scar till the end of your days.
Your footsteps are like moonlight, lithe and agile as you waltz across the expanse with the wind in your hair, and spring knocking upon your soul "Oh isn't it lovely to soak in the night, count the stars and go to sleep at twilight's door?"
Why is it that you can get under my skin even when I know that you never try, why must your words fall like shining swords upon my chest and stick to my heart such that I can never unsheathe them, not without losing parts of myself I hold so precious?
I know what makes people bond. No, it's not love. (Big surprise, eh?)
You see, I prey on the most primal of human instincts. I see your fear, and I hone in on your fragile senses like a missile on unclaimed territory.
I am the knowledge that only you possess, and a part of you is terrified to share it with others, to halve the burden that you carry with increasing uncertainty.
I can be, very rarely, a beacon of light. But my defining feature is that I lurk in the darkest parts of your heart, the blackest shades of your soul. I come alive in the darkness, and press down upon the gates that guard your sanity.
I am often shared between two people, and that is when my powers truly manifest themselves. For to split me open, is to split open all that you hold dear. When I walk into the sunlight, I take with me a piece of your heart that you can never reclaim.
I decimate friendship without a shred of mercy, and leave people questioning their own selves. Trust wages a war with me, and I think both of us are inside people. I am as much a part of your skin, though you never see me. I wait and watch you fall apart as you try to resist me but I know you never can.