Sublimation.

Who am I

that I must be loved
so exquisitely,
excruciatingly
by the dead
and the living?  

Who am I
 that I deserve to be
 the cause,
 the effect
of this anguish
that pulls apart
fraying sutures
of a repeatedly worn-out heart?

 Who am I-
An ice sculpture,
Commended for beauty
and loved hastily
by those who
anticipate
its melting.

Are those not tears ?
The wetness of my being
that melts as ..

They wait in horror
(or is it delight?)
For me to drip away
into fluid nothingness.
To prove I am alive.
(For ice-sculptures are animate only if they drip.)

But wait,
There is no flow,
and hence,
there must be an absence of life,
The steady
v
a
n
i
s
h
i
n
g

 is
Unexpected.

Chaos.

'It was never alive!'
'Deception!'

My secrets remain undiscovered,
Trapped in forgotten melody
and lost biscuit boxes.

'Dry Ice.'
says the one that knew me
and smiling lopsidedly,
reasserts his statement-

'They still don't know squat about you.'

4 a.m.

I tasted the answers in the music you left me.
It was all there.
Every note.
Black and sweet .
Nothing left incomplete.

And you left me behind
 these old lines-

'Want you to know,
That I could go,
Any time...
I want you to know...

Once she would hold me,
She was my only,
only true love.
Once she had told me,
that I am holy,
only so long.'

What is this about?
Resolve?
Rejection?
Resolution?
Acceptance?

I feel so helpless.
But I’m a coward.

I can’t take my life in my own hands.
I can’t take my life with my own hands.

What do I do?
Pointless
Useless
Writing.

It’s not going to make anything better.
It’s not going to change anything.
But we were.
We could have.
Things didn’t have to be okay.
We had each other and I always thought that was enough.

‘You're always looking for love.
I mean the romantic kind...’
‘Yes.’

It’s 4 a.m. and I can’t get to sleep.
Pain. Insomnia.  Death.
There is nothing romantic about it.
It’s so real and the books and the movies and the songs and the dreams
are all WRONG.

If even one of this could make me a better human being…
Or a better writer…
It might have been worth it.
But maybe not even then.

What is the value of my life?
Who am I?
Why am I alive instead of him?
What do I have to do here, something that is left undone?
and why is it even important?

Nobody has the answers.
But these voices just won’t shut up inside my head.
Maybe I should kill the questions instead.

And he sings...

‘ Can you imagine no love, pride,
deep-fried chicken,
your best friend always sticking up for you,
even when I know you’re wrong.
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze-dried romance,
five hour phone conversations,
the best soy latte that you ever had
and Me.
Tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the milky way
and see the lights all faded
and that heaven is over-rated,
and tell me,
did you fall for a shooting-star,
one without a permanent scar,
and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there.’
(Drops of Jupiter)
'Yes.'

References

I stay up all night, unblinking.
Old conversations rise up before me.
They place their long, cold fingers on my warm throat.

I feel my pulse beat faster as the words swim across my eyes.
A black river of memory.
Then the chill pit in my stomach and the hollow of my heart
Disassociate.
I survive.
They fail to
Asphyxiate
Me.

I blame me.
Then I blame you.
Then I cry.

Every song is drenched in new meaning,
So simple, yet unattainable till now.

All the words that you planted in my brain,
flower in blazing light.
But they smell different, somehow.
An odour of memory and death and longing and love.

We used to talk about selective memory.
I will try not to commit that mistake.

Yes I agreed with Neruda that love was shorter than forgetting.
And you said that I listened like spring and talked like June.
And I knew that one day, one of us would have to be without the other.
but I never imagined it would be me and it would be so soon.

This love is strange, Ron.
It grows stranger each day.
And it grows stronger each day.

I know you felt too much love would kill me,
 If didn't make up my mind
and I know that you wanted to break free.

You are free now.
And I'm alone.
And I'm alive.
Without you.
 But why?
I wish you were here.

I'm tired of writing poetry.
I'm tired of making sense.
I'm tired of asking questions.
I'm tired of looking for answers.
And even finding them, sometimes.

But I'm not tired of loving you.
And I'm not tired of you memory.
And till I love,
And till I remember.
You'll always be here with me.

Love

They told me the world would end in 2012.
And it did.

You told me writing about Love wasn't enough.
Then you killed yourself so I could write about Death instead.

It's not about what I want to say to you now.
It's about what I couldn't tell you then.

That I loved you and I left you so that you would be stronger and find your way and I'd come back someday (obviously) and tell you sorry and tell you how proud I am of you and will you please take me back?

But that won't happen.

You are dead.

You are dead.

You are dead?

Dead.

I can't feel the meaning of this word.

Dead.

I see the letters make a curious shape, but its oblong and smoky and the world must be over because you can't be dead.

They tell me it's not my fault.
Perhaps they are correct.

But I'll never know.

And I told you but you never believed me - and now you'll never know.
Or I'll never know that you know now.

How much I love you.


31.5.2012

Ennui

Eight days had made a difference.
Eight black days.

Time devolved into time.

I hated mornings.
It crept through the hollow spaces of my dead windows,
Sunny. Bubbling with brightness.
I hated this ...light...
It threw into stark relief things I wanted to keep unseen.

I made tea for myself today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

Then I thought-
Let me think.

And I did.

About faraway seas and storms and ocean-liners.
About trains and planes and handsome foreigners.
About how this will make no sense to them at all.
About how I should stop anticipating a call.

By then it was time to feed the dog.
My bones clicked together like knitting needles as I made my way to the greasy kitchen.
I sipped the air, rather than breathed it.

'This is tiresome', I spoke out loud to the masala-stained light-pink tiles.
'Tiresome to write.''
'Tiresome to think.'
'Tiresome to love.'

I waited for the birth of a beautiful, silver, tinkling phrase
To come to me with hesitant, wobbly baby steps.
After all, my brain had been impregnated with pain, right?
This blackness should bring forth light...

No.

I made tea for myself again, today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

                  ***