The marks on your wrists, although waving quite visibly in the air as you took orders to brew various kinds of coffee, were as oblivious as the pain that walks on streets in the form of the most beautiful smiles. And yet, here I am, writing once again, about stories that lay concealed beneath layers of awkward silences, make-believe happiness and sometimes, even aggressive defiance, like the one your eyes had reflected, the moment they had caught mine fixated on your forearm.
And today morning, while waiting in the queue, I saw you eyeing me with a smirk upon your lips. My knotted eyebrows soon straightened back as my gaze finally came to rest upon your skin. The marks were gone. Deleted forever or veiled, once again, I can't quite say. Replaced by a dragon tattoo, that looked both, formidable and fierce. And I'll give you that, the tattoo looked much better suited on your wrist than those objectionable stains. After all, the weaknesses, in this so called big bad world are supposed to find a place only within a poetry.
But as I lie here now, at the silent hour of midnight staring above at the ceiling, I can't help but wonder. Wonder what is it that you fear? Being judged for the way you deal with pain or the pain getting drenched in pitiful rains. I wonder what is worse? The slits that slowly drain your life or the life that makes you cut yourself every night. And I wonder why you chose to veil it once again? To save yourself a yet another sad song, or cause somehow, you knew I'd write about you and 'scars' wasn't the note you wanted your poetry to end on.
A lifetime down the line you and I will meet, at the ice cream shop round the corner, at the end of this busy street. I'll scrunch my nose at your black currant and at my vanilla, you'll cock an eyebrow. With amused eyes you'll say, "Choco chips don't hurt, you know." I'll tell you that I hate chocolates for they're too sugary for my taste, like pretty smiles and men's lies and vows made in wine and haste. You'll call me a corny cliché like those wishes made upon a dying star, I'll tell you, maybe it's a good thing then, they can be admired only from afar.
A lifetime down the line, we'll watch a sunset together. Distances and hours apart, yet living in it, a forever. With wrinkles wrapped in greys, you will take a stroll down the street, And at an ice cream parlor round the corner, A corny cliché you'll greet. Faded and quite hazy, yet living on in your memory. And you'll smile at how it lingered without reminders and galleries. With a distant look in your eyes, You'll order vanillas, two. And on being asked if you'd like some choco chips, With a smile on your face you'll say, "no".
His very adamant sweet tooth would always end up binging on cheesecake on every date we had, and then make him stay up all night due to sugar rush. On those nights, he would call me, mostly around 2:00 am, shamelessly tell me that he misses me already, and then spend the rest of the night talking about avengers.
He had this very strange habit where he would buy synthetic roses, spray them with his cologne and gift them to me saying that then I would have his scent with me even after he's gone. And before I'd have the chance to frown at the sheer insensitivity of the gift or tell him that I hate roses, he would pull me closer to him and shut me up with a fragrant kiss.
He was always drawn to the ocean. Said he related to the waves. And if I ever asked me how, he would offer me a side lobed smile and say, "We're both fated to perish." The beach made him write poetries, but everytime I'd ask him to recite me one, he would simply shrug saying poetries are nothing but exaggerated lies. And poets, the most beautiful liars.
He was true to his words though. For one night, he walked away. Like all good things do. Like a gust of wind, that brushes past you leaving behind nothing but a feeling. Often, a cold one. He left with no goodbyes for he always hated them. No letters for me to read over a cup of hot chocolate. No explanations, no reasons and no T-shirts to cuddle me to sleep.
All he left behind were a few songs in his voice that still comfort me amidst the afternoon mayhem and a few plastic roses that smell like him, especially at a lonely 2:00 am.
sometimes you don't realise how much you've hurt someone, not cause you're incapable of unclouded judgements or too self righteous to accept a fault, but solely because the heart on the receiving end cares a little too much to make you detest yourself.
Flipping the pages of their diary, you don't find poetry weaved out of the pain you inflicted, for they refuse to immortalise the part of you that had ended up agonising them, because somehow, they never learnt to write about you in a way that wasn't beautiful.
Yes. Sometimes, you remain shielded from the merciless claws of guilt and regret, simply because your victim happens to be much better lover than you will ever be.
I've been a liar, been a thief Been a lover, been a cheat.
-Ed Sheeran & Marshall Mathers (River)
Like the silences speak volumes when you care enough to listen. Like the blank pages contain stories of ends that had no beginning. Like the spaces between the stars hide cosmic secrets within. The gaps between these pretty words conceal a zillion ugly sins.
I remember nothing about the day I met you. Except you. Your striking blue eyes scrutinizing me from behind the thick rimmed glasses as your lips contorted, sputtering out the most distasteful tone that had ever graced my ears. "Do you know you can be nice and still be real?" You had said, scowling. I remember the most fascinating eye roll I had ever received over a blank reply. Your pastel shaded hands waving in air as you huffed in exasperation before dragging your lean and lanky physique clad in a teal blue button down shirt, out of my sight. I remember it all too vividly. You wore my favorite color that day, after all.
And I remember everything about the day you left. Except you. The sunny blue sky that made it difficult for me to open my eyes. The dim lit room occupied by beeping monitors on one side and blue curtains on the other. The suffocating scent of chemicals that was no longer mixed with yours, the white walls, the white bedsheet, the pale fingers. But, how could those trembling fingers clutching onto mine be yours? Your skin was a pastel shade of dawn, not flaking white. That cracking voice, asking me to promise that when the time comes, I would let you go, could not be yours. Your voice was never that lifeless. Your eyes were anything but a blue slowly fading into oblivion.
I wish my last memory of you was a little more colorful than white and blue. I wish it had a little more of you rather than your fragile hands and gradually ceasing breaths. A little more than the emptiness that had clogged my brain. Or the numbness that kept getting heavier with every tick of the clock. I still remember the helplessness that had coursed through me as I was dragged to another room. A room with the same blue curtains and white walls, but without you. I remember the confusion that made me wonder why was it all so quiet when I could see people screaming. I never knew chaos could come veiled as dead silence, at times.
I remember passing out to a blurry whiteness that kept growing. That kept engulfing any color that dared to reside in it's way. And I remember I wanted nothing more than the curtains to stop being blue.
Tonight, let's down a peg more and spill some secrets. Repeat the mistakes old and have no regrets. Let's revisit the childhood, turn smoke back to screams. Count the lifetimes it'll take to fulfill the discarded dreams.
Let's dare a little more, break the decaying promises. Adorn a new canvas with some guiltless kisses. Let's scratch a few wounds and let them bleed. And carve a few more once they begin to heal.
Tonight, let's laugh like a kid on a merry-go-round. And weep like rose petals falling to the ground. Let's indulge in old stories and weave some new. Come let's live a little in me and a little in you.
Let's stay up till dawn, and for once, not be alright. Let's let the tears flow unabridged, without a fight. Let's find a zillion taints and love, despite. Let's allow each other have one less lonely night.
Let's exchange the old scars for some fresh pain. Tonight, let's make a bargain and be human again.
Its an inexplicable rush, almost comical and insanely cute to watch a pair of strong hands tremble nervously at the first thought of holding those delicate, tiny fingers worrying that it's fragile skin might crease with his clumsy touch that it's wobbling head might roll off his steely embrace that his rough lullabies sound like an old, crumbling plastic bag carefully folded & hushed and all of his masculinity begins to moisten at the first look of it's face
" These . These are only words. Where's this 'You and me' here , that you often talk of, where's this 'us' that you talk of so much! Okay, can you just do one thing, Try writing your love poem with bare minimum metaphors , maybe then it'll look like one!"
So, TO YOU ,LOVE!
I dip my index finger in ink not in Nile and it comes out as a bristle-less brush not as a river monster's tail , then I try to write a poem on a person who thinks verses are completely useless and on Me , not on a heart shaped soul cracking from within!
If I'll draw US in paper, My mind will add an extra A in its end , Let alone Summer in New York, The smallest corner of my tree house in strom, Will come in my head, Before your thoughts, For, When I sit to write, You simply doesn't come, On papers , I swear, You come with metaphors on your left And a cigar in your right hand, Keeping it just some silenced words, My person, You're hard to sit amongst any of them, Your name too is a poem to me But it looks, ugly to you, when it's alone and free! I love you but I also love all other things, All other faces and stories ,a new day brings My being is a door opened for all type tenants, So , for you , home it must be not! Hence, in the Ice cream corner, I will leave your hand again and ask That little kid when her mom will come! I'll cut your call in 2 secs, If Calls my pain, And will write for you using metaphors!
People often talk about the things they love, With the ones they love, And so, I guess there is something wrong. A bit of me is some breeze and phrases, Which you clearly distaste, A bit of me is a para on self love Which you loudly yell at, A bit of me loves all of you, But not all the time, That bit which you love to call, 'hatred'
So , TO YOU TOO , HEARTBREAK! Today I will break one heart, And will also save one, I don't know which is going to be which So I write... Maybe hate isn't the antonym of love, But it doesn't stay where love exists,
So I dip my finger in Nile, From which comes out a river monster's tail And I try to write a poem On US And add FL before it and a H in its end! And the heart and the soul falls out different, And we are yet to find the shape of love, Different For each of U-S! So here is my last poem or whatever, To you to read or not, With bare minimum, Lies and fake parts!
I will call this a semi-fiction with a pinch of Shit! )
The street smells Like leftover food, Gasoline and cold Hard dollar bills The traffic light Won't turn green And you tell Me a story About how your Childhood was spent In broken down Elevators, because there Wasn't enough money To fix it It was funny Because there was Always enough money To buy cigarettes.
So you waited Inside, sweat pouring Down your wrists As you heard The guests cursing Under their breath As they trudged Up the staircase They didn't believe You when you Said you were Scared of small Spaces, but they Hadn't seen your Tears, and they Sure as hell Had never heard About claustrophobia.
It is mid Afternoon now, and The air conditioning Has broken down We lie sprawled On the bed Waiting for the Heat to burn Our hurt I trace an Outline across the Edges of your Wolf tattoo, and Glide my fingers From the nape Of your neck As I talk About stars shining Upon your skin While you smash The half empty Vodka bottle on The dirt covered Floor, and cry.