In a box, under my bed

We were in a dream. From dusk to dawn, in a spot on your shoulder. We continued to dream in oblivion, unrelenting to wake up. The clock ticking and the seconds sprinting- no, they couldn't catch up with us. We were dreaming to the beat of your heart.

We were in a dream. From dusk to dawn, a song on repeat. We were drunk on the music of rain, we couldn't sober up. Reality was a parallel world, existing someplace else. It couldn't burst our bubble.

We were in a dream. It felt real. And although there's nowhere else I'd rather be, nowhere I'd rather  be than in our dream... 

We woke up.

I wonder if you've noticed

I'll say it.

I’ll say it to you.

Because it's December.

It's December, it's that time of the year.

It’s that time of the year when constellations of stars don’t compare the chandeliers of lights suspended in the night sky.

That time of the year when the snow falls, then slowly settles, like a blanket of scintillating diamonds.

When you find yourself enveloped by the studded night sky and the snow-covered street all the same.

So, I’ll say it.

I’ll say it to you.

Because amidst the chilly winter, I feel the warmth of a thousand fireplaces.

But I’ll say it anyway.

I’ll say it because sometimes the flames of fire die down and my body crumbles in a shiver.

I’ll say it because it hurts.

Because it hurts to not say it anymore.

But saying it hurts too.

It hurts when the broken words perch upon my lips, like sharp-edged shards of glass.

It hurts to part my lips, and to utter the words.

It hurts when the pieces cut deeper into my skin, and leave scars in places most vulnerable.

But it hurts even more  to purse my lips in silence.

So I’ll say it.

Because not saying it hurts more.

I think of you. I reminisce of  times gone past.

Of the many Decembers.

It reminds me of us. Of what could’ve been.

I think of the way we were and the way we’re not.

I think in clichés.

I think until the clichés collapse.

I think until I can. And then until I can’t anymore.

So I write.

I write another clichéd poem.

Of our love.

It’s easy at first.

My typewriter is used to it by now.

The letters that spell your name are the keys my fingers have touched the most.

And sometimes, when I forget, my faded fingerprints on the keys remind me.

And so I write poem after  poem.

Until I can’t.

Until the keys rust and the ribbons run dry.

And so I stop writing.

I wonder if you’ve noticed that I’ve stopped.

I’ve stopped writing about you.

I’ve stopped writing poetry about you.

And I’ll say it because it’s December.

I’ll say it because it’s that time of the year.

It’s that time of the year, when you stopped loving me.

And I’ll say it because it hurts to write poetry about you.

But having said that, let me just say

To write poetry that’s not about you hurts even more.

Not that kinda story

Somehow, we got there. Don't ask me how. How is still a mystery to me. A mystery I'd rather leave unresolved. I know we could trace back our footsteps. We could even follow the clues and solve the case. Or perhaps, take the hints and complete the riddle. But I'd rather not. I'd rather not lose the beauty of our mystery. I'd rather not make my way through the labyrinth we lost ourselves in.

I'd rather not tell that story. Because, honestly, stories of people coming together and people finding each other bore me. Everyone has a story of how they met. When did our lives become scripts of movies and narratives of novels? When did the stories of our lives become love stories? Stories of serendipity and stories of struggle. That's not the story I want to tell. Because I don't care how we got there, I just know we did.

I just know that somehow we replaced the silences with snippets of conversation. I just know that we fooled time and beat distance. At first, we tried to make up for the time we had lost, and to cover the distance that separated us. At first, our words flowed uncontrollably and our smiles touched the twinkle in our eyes. Our collision was unexpected, it had shaken us so. Our collision was inevitable, it had moved us all the same.

In that moment, while the guitarist strummed his strings, was when our fingers found each other. We let ourselves surrender to the warm embrace of a dream. It only lasted a breath. It only lasted a heartbeat. But I know we got there. I know because,  in that moment, I had forgotten 

the lyrics to my favourite song.

Of books, tattoos, and infinities

The perks of being a wallflower - Stephen Chbosky

 &

The fault in our stars- John Green

"And in that moment, I swear we were infinite." - Stephen Chbosky

"It's just that some infinities are bigger than other infinities."- John Green

These two books, categorized under 'Young Adult Fiction', are probably not the first choice of books for final year, English Literature students, who are, in fact, expected to drown themselves in chunky, 'canonical' novels.

This is when summer steps in. The summer light, with its promise of long days; ideal for hours and hours of uninterrupted basking in the sun in the company of iced teas and paperbacks. Not the scorching sun,  blinding the eyes and the words on the page, but the kind of sun that lightly touches the skin, leaving a tickle of warmth. Not the 'On-the-University-reading list' books, but the 'Books-I-WANT-to-read' books.

Little do they know, that as the stories came to an end, the novels came to a close, and summer bid goodbye, they would be changed forever. This might sound like an exaggerated experience- 'being changed forever', but sometimes, beauty lies in the exaggerations of fairytales and the hyperboles of poetry. The kind that have to be experienced personally in order to understand, at once, the height and depth of their beauty.

The perks of being a wallflower and The fault in our stars are two such books. Which, for lack of a better phrase, leave their impression long after one has finished the book. They are powerful and thought-provoking texts, that serve and stand as firm pillars of inspiration. And at once, they are beautiful and poignant, leaving the pages of your paperback tear-stained.


They have inspired a waterfall of words- words that define fragmented moments but are, in fact, an infinite whole.

It's just that some infinities are bigger than others
It's just that some silences are quieter than others
It's just that some noises echo louder than others
It's just that some hearts break more than others
It'a just that some hearts love more than others
It's just that... way.

Tattoo #3

And in that moment

She lived an infinity

Of their love

Of their love gone by

Of their time

Of their time gone by

And in that moment

She said her goodbye.

Closure

Stabbing words, their weapons of warfare

Battling hearts, stand armour-less and bare

Deep incisions, damaging them in unison

Wounding words, bruising hearts to the blue

Vulnerable victims of words too many, few

A string of words, being woven into a lyric

Music of the classics, comforting the cynic

Souls once sore now sing in symphony galore

Bittersweet words heard playing on their pain

Warm words, thawing the once ice-cold vein

The words were confused, the heart conflicted

To the labyrinth, their words were restricted

In the past was pensive, what is now defensive

Scarring words, regretting, however relentless

Flowing sans knowing, in denial of the mess

A whirlpool of words, said in a state of delirium

Heartbreak’s beautiful tragedy you can’t fathom

Desperate words dripping uncontrollably so

Every letter of every word, echoes with pity

It echoes of the beauty of their inevitability  

Restore the Balance

There are no words.

In fact, there haven't been words for a while.

But their absence has gone unnoticed.

Until now. HOW? 

You see, lately there has been a shortage. 

A shortage, in our time and age.

There have been no words on the page.

RAGE.

But now that we know,

we won't fall so low.

We know which way to go. 

GO GO GO.

So now we're trying to cope.

Oh, have some hope!

Don't tie us down with a rope

Don't. Mope. 

We're trying to cope with the scarcity

but it's a tough struggle.

We have contacted the Dictionary,

we have lodged a complaint. 

<NO RESPONSE>

Not yet anyway.

Meanwhile, the Thesaurus 

yeah, it's gone missing too.

WARNING: 

We said there was a shortage, 

a scarcity.

<of words> in our city.

A Depression in the word worLd?

You ask. While in the sun, you bask.

Oh, it's too much of a task. 

Let's just put on a mask.

<to escape the depression>

But, no more digression.

It's the word depression.

So much so, that we're adding 

the letter 'L' to the word 'word'

We're adding, and hence constructing

another word? 

Oops, we meant

WOR<L>D

So much so, a phrase of scarcity.

So much so, the we repeat the word

SO twice- in a three word phrase. 

Such is this phase.

The Word Depression.

Such is this phRase.

Ph<R>ase

We're resorting to

mathematical calculations

and/or chemical reactions.

And when we do so,

We get-

And/or

<The only time we have 

an alternate word>

Note to self: Don't go so far as to say abundance.

And in these times of need,

Oh, won't you pay heed.

In the word crisis, we have

the audacity to

discard and dismiss

words.

Discard and dismiss the word abundance.

Oh, the irony of the word crisis.

Epiphany:

Maybe there is no word crisis.

Maybe there's a worLd crisis.

Maybe they're distracting us with the former

in order to keep the latter a top secret.

In order to maintain order.

It's a word conspiracy.

It's the world's word conspiracy.

Because evidently there's no shortage

of words. 

After all, we're so many words

into this word crisis

or conspiracy.

PICK YOUR WORD.

PICK YOUR WEAPON.

Whatever.

It's a multiple choice question.

It's not the word depression okay?

The word crisis was just a cover up

for the number crisis.

But we fell back 

on mathematical calculations.

We fell into their trap.

Their CRAP.

Because, you see

there is no shortage.

There ARE words.

Rhyming words, even- trap crap

Rapping words, even- 

If you pull that crap, you're in a trap!

Repetitive words, even- even words

Evidence: 

Three words with the letter R-

Rhyming Rapping Repetitive

Oh you could spout poetry-

poetry on handwritten manscripts

no blank wordless parchments.

Cause the truth is,

we need

the scales to balance.

Cause the truth is,

we are

addicted to the equilibrium.

The numbers go 

down

-

up

The words come

Or maybe,

The numbers have gone up

and that's why we are

taking words down.

Who knows.

What does Who know?

Mission: Go find Who

Take him under custody,

threaten him, demand he

tell us what he knows.

Who the hell here knows Who?

Find Who.

Figure this out.