On a cold August evening, you Sneak out of The house, your Bare feet tread Softly on the Withered leaves, you Wonder if they Can see your Shadow from the Northwest corner of The verandah, you Cannot help but Think how long It will be Before they find Out that you Have gone missing.
You are a Stranger to this City, and the Roads seem as Unfamiliar as the Day when you First set foot On them, you Hurry as much As you can But there is No clock, no Compass to tell You where you Are going, you Know you are About to be Lost, and you Are trying to Decide if that's A good thing.
Somewhere in the Middle of nowhere A clock tower Chimes, and a Baby lets out Its first cry Your feet drag You across the Gravel, the wind Is your enemy You press your Palm to your Cheek, and recoil At the frigid Touch, and the Dockyards seems much Too far away.
The dockyards stand Proudly, having claimed The ships as Their prisoner, the Waters hold a Promise of freedom They never taught You to swim But now with The wild calling Out to you Screaming in your Ears, you take A plunge into The great perhaps And leave the Rest to gravity.
"We're scared of dying It's fine What's a fiver? Being young in the city Believe in saying something Would you please listen? Would you please listen? We can see it's missing When you bleed, say so we know Being young in the city Believe in saying something Don't have to say that It's all on fire I'll wear a wire So if you want me to lay down My skin is fire It's so desired No gun required Or will you help me lay down?" -I Like America and America Likes Me; The 1975
There's a bloom of Jasmine in my backyard. The kind that thrives at night. I bought her last month. Each morning, I water her. Each night, she blossoms.
She greets me with a delightful fragrance, and I tell her of our stories. I remember only the good things, I tell her, quoting Elio. And she beams.
I tell her of your voice, and how perfect my name sounds, spilling from your lips. I tell her of the way we laugh, stealing glances instead of breaths. I tell her how beautiful the sunlight seems, falling on your face, and how dazzling, feels the light that reflects your smile.
I tell her how your hair, to me was the softest thing in the world. I tell her how your touch, was purer than rain. I tell her how you disliked monsoons, because it disrupted your game. And I tell her how you stayed, in the rain with me anyway.
I tell her how your eyes, grazed my soul in a way no one else dared. I tell her of your grace, how you defined elegance. I tell her of your kindness, how deeply you understood the world, and I tell her how we swayed, to the melody of our favourite song.
I smile wildly at the memories, and she, shines back. I pray she doesn't sense, the sadness within.
She wraps me in her perfume, and sings me to sleep. I'm a desolate vessel, trying too hard, to spread happiness lest, it ever come to me.
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.