I have grieved over how the sun takes over the night sky each morning. Brings with it a new day & takes away the gloomy peace of the previous one. I have laid on my bed, half awake to such atrocities committed by the rotation of the earth & prayed that I won’t be coaxed into facing this strange new day. I am happy laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling with all its faint cracks; or at least it is what makes me feel the most secure. I pray for the moon to arrive at my window, bringing an end to the expectations others have from me.
Loneliness is key to the fruitful growth of my sadness.
we search for the meaning behind our tears in rhymes stringed by those whose eyes haven’t wept in centuries.
I reach out for the longest hugs & the shortest goodbyes. The permanence of most things annoy me. They feel calm & restricted, like they’ve got all the time in the world to feel what my mind ardently wishes to feel right this second. They mock my callowness & boast of how quaint & subtle their smiles are. They want me to meekly accept my fate & oppress my youth like others before did. To cross my legs and shut my mouth. That’s how they define BEAUTIFUL.
There is no beauty in quiet to me. Beauty is a garland stringed together with all your messy, loud imperfections, to create something completely unpredictable, but mesmerising. Beauty isn’t found in textbooks. Beauty is scattered all around, in the muddy jungles where your heart beats the loudest; during those sleepless nights when your ghosts come out to haunt you; during thunderstorms with candles, lighting all the nooks and crannies of your asymmetrical face; inside unread letters sealed with wax that you’re too scared to open.
In conclusion, beauty is you.
One word from your lips is enough to cause this wild tempest inside my soul. It’s always unexpected, the blizzard; & yet when my mind dances with the smell of your skin, I realise that there couldn’t have been any other reason for it.
The shards of glass shattered on the floor mature into satiny snow, its beauty iridescent in the sun’s rays, as if blushing with sweet agony from the recognition it is receiving, not realising its imminent end.
My days seem insipid compared to yours, and I wonder what I could offer that you don’t already have.
But you look at me like I’m the most enticing element in your life, like a poem entangled in allegorical statements, and you, a lover of the balladry, devoted to solve all my mysteries.
You are an enigma to me, a friend lost on the path towards my heart.
I know your words & I admire you for them. I imagine the tunes you must hum at night & simultaneously sway to the melody. I read aloud poetry when alone, hoping that some small fragment of it might sail to you through the colossal distance between us & reach your ears like a transient gust of wind on a hot summer’s night. I know nothing of you & yet if we found each other side by side, I’d unveil my deepest fears & desires, oblivious to what my actions would amount to.
Till then my friend, it has been a pleasure not knowing you.
As I sit there under the nocturnal sky, I can feel your mind wandering around my body, wanting to have me as your canvas.
Your fingers creating little swirls down my naive bare back; art not meant to be appreciated by others but perceived by me & you & us. Slowly, the stars start hiding behind the dark grey smog that we romantics still call clouds, apprehensive of coming between us & all that we might conclude to. My mind, cautious, but your touch slowly turning all my learnt decency & womanhood into that of a credulous nymph. I don’t mind it really. This isn’t lust in its pure form. For there is no one to adjudicate our callowness. We’re miles away from all their conjectures & criticisms. It’s just you, me, & the night.
There are things in life which give me surreal joy. Like the existence of a single flower on a barren ground, to the idea of the sky changing colours according to it’s own disposition.
And then there are things that send cold melancholic shivers down my spine like lost love letters,the words in them still unread, to indefinitely cloudy nights veiling the moon & the stars, implying the disappearance of all that matters.
You my friend are everything in between.