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Poetry

Love, Poetry

Captain’s Log

Poetry spills from my lips so it’s harder to write when I have someone to kiss.


On a hot as fuck day in October, we kiss. I make it a point not to remember the day because I promised myself I wouldn’t be sentimental anymore. So, I didn’t. All I did was numb myself to it as it washed over my existence. It built up beneath my mask until I scratched it out.

It’s a starry night in December, the shit poets dream about, and we are still together. Poets dream about things like this too; pushing deadlines till they cease to exist. So here we are somehow existing beyond our shelf life, stumbling drunk from the bar as I lean on you, I tell you I am attached to you.

It’s hot again in January but now the heat is different. A paradoxical heat because it brings forth destruction in a month of new beginnings. We reached our shelf life. We burnt it all and we each carry equal blame.

On a foggy morning in February, we are drifting in the unknown, we talk about the Phoenix. You said sometimes we must burn to create. We will burn again, but not today.

Poets describe love as a fever that cannot be put out unless the beloved is within reach. Maybe my  words are a symptom of that fever.

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“We were prone to so many disasters — lives lost to suicide, minds wrecked, hearts marooned in the backwaters of time, bodies burning with pointless obsessions — and we gave each other a hell lot of trouble.”

– Pinball, Haruki Murakami

Poetry

Of Cauterised Wounds.

The first day without you goes unnoticed. I drown thoughts of you by surrounding myself with people. Their chatter wins me over.  I tuck you in the folds of my mind and keep you for later.

Later is the second day. It is then that I realise what I did. I want to take my words back. Tell you I’ll stay even when being with you is suffocating me. It isn’t easy being with someone that sees you sans pretensions.

Pretensions are for the third day. I’m irritable and unsettled. I walk into a room to pick something and I forget what it is the moment I walk into the room. You were just as forgetful as me, remember?

Remembrance is for the fourth day and forever. This is what must happen. Every word I write from today will be a synonym for my longing.

Poetry

August 14th

“Each
time you happen to me all over again.” – Edith Wharton
It is
the gaping hole in my heart that other loves can’t fill. It is the ache that
remains over my body long after you’re gone. A familiar ache, much like the one
lovers welcome the morning after. But this ache is more refined. More than his
scent clinging to my body; it is his very essence fused with mine, a fusion
that gives birth to eternity. It is him reading my favourite novel in one night
because his curiosity about my mind is a precarious fire only matched by his
curiosity for my body. The very body that will only come alive at his hands, I am
the marionette, he is my manipulator. As I manipulate the cold words to set his
heart ablaze. It is the conversation we always have at 4
am as the bathroom
light creeps into the room and illuminates our faces. The conversation about an
intoxication much worse than any drug or alcohol that a diffident youth could
ever imagine. It is us choosing to ruin each other, albeit it is an anomaly. The anomaly
of lips that always taste the same sweet way, morning or night, a true deviation
from that all that I know. It is the incessant dream I have come to accept with
every inch of my body, every beat of my heart, fluttering of the soul and every
wave length of my brain saying nothing but your name. It is the muse that calls
at all hours and insists I breathe life into it with my words. It is the psychedelic
experience of your skin on mine, a vivid reminder of the effect silk has on my
bare soul and of your smile, the gallant warrior that brought down my walls. So we
always find our way back to each other. For you are an unfinished poem that I
must keep returning to.

 “It is a feeling, an ineffable chaos and
paradox that I will always attribute to the mystery that is you. 
Poetry

Forsaken Explorer

“I am so loving and open and love
for me is infinite, so I don’t know why all I’ve ever learnt about love is that
mine is not enough.” – Kathleen Joy


Everything I write about you,
goes straight to the recycle bin.
This is where you belong,
with your tender eyes and
your firm hands.

You reside in the place where
forgotten things go,
to linger among the things I am
afraid to face,
to remain pending until I am at
my most vulnerable.


With my guard down and frail arms
clutching at straw,
this is when I click restore,
and for that moment you are set
apart
Set apart from the forgotten.

So I take in the memories
a reflection of reality,
to soothe my withered soul.

Your words on my brain
finding their way into my art.
Your touch on my heart
reminding the silly organ to
continue beating.


Then… poison.
It is all poison,
this is not reality.

I favour some memories over the
others,
the ones of your sunken face,
watching me walk away.
Never the ones of your stoic face
pushing me away with one look.

This is reality,
the fact that you should, could,
would be here.
But you aren’t.

The fact that I take in a deep
breath,
every time I meet someone new
hoping they’ll smell just like
you.


And even though they never do,
they’ll find a way to take your place
and be the new folder on my
desktop.
Poetry

The man has grown cold.

“I am that clumsy human, always loving,
loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving. You are a stone. We weep
together and make a bed for rain.”

— Frida
Kahlo 
   

The
man has grown cold,
my
touch does nothing for him.
We
kiss because we must,
and
the taste repulses me.
The
man has grown cold,
the
thought of another in his shoes
welcomes
him with open arms
and
I fear for my heart.
The
man has grown cold,
He
speaks to me
And
yet my soul hears nothing
He
is speaking to a corpse.
The
man has grown cold,
And
I am convinced
That
it is merely a reflection.
Maybe,
just maybe
The
man has grown cold
Because
I grew cold.