Before knowing the alphabets
of your name or mine,
I learnt to make you smile.
I pluck another flower that makes me sneeze every time
but the silly pathetic me smiles as you smile
as I crawl to you
losing something similar to heart,
as I dress you up in a mountain of petals I clenched too hard
hoping you would never move away from me.
How you dozed off as I made myself sick with my ambition.
How you were still sleeping as your mother took you in arms
brushing away every piece of my care.
But it is better than the days I woke up
with only the traces of my feelings, my cradle of flowers
without you in it.
The crowd, every crowd-
they exhaust me
and frighten me.
They take away air around me
and tell me to leave myself at the door,
if I want to come in.
They like to stare a lot,
they like to condition my mind, my eyes to look away when they stare.
Is this the point
where I am supposed to sit down with a sigh
and tell a sad story-
about how I was wronged (isn’t everyone?),
how they never apologized,
how there was nothing to apologize for,
how people find it easier to support the one in wrong,
how it is easier to hate myself that to hate so many people.
The most painful but convenient words that I can tell myself-
“maybe they were right” “i took it too personally”.
How the result of telling someone all this
are more words like these-
“you are not the only one, it happens, it is normal”
“don’t make a big deal of it”.
Is there any end to what one must hear and suffer
just to give an explanation that people want so badly to hear
and are more desperate to brush off as weakness of my own character.
A last chance again brushes past me
and a list gathers in me like aimless insects
gathering around their last light.
They talk to each other
about all the things that they had hoped
they would find by now.
One by one tears fill up in the eyes
of every wish,
when one of them says that
it spends its days
marking a good day on calendar
to end everything.
That every star it joins
on the worksheet of night sky
spells out the name of the one
that could have been its answer.
It feels sad because
everytime it is a new name
and sometimes a name that it doesn’t remember.
It hurts that the name it can cry for
is not one but many.
It hurts more that to think
that in that one forgotten name
maybe lies the memory of a day
that should never have been forgotten.
Let me crib.
Let me complain
and let me regret it,
and say again and again
that I never meant a word that you found mean.
I am unusually irresponsible.
I have a ledger
filled with all that I must truly care for.
I only forget to look at it
and act on it.
Even if I am not actually a cold person
I won’t mind it if you describe me so.
I will brush it off
and probably fashion a passive-hatred for you
from all that I act doesn’t bother me.
When it all gets out of my head
and burns your heart,
I will let you crib.
I will let you complain.
and when you say again and again
that you never meant a word that I found mean,
I will believe you.
I hope that will be enough for us to last
longer that the time we could ever predict
if we let each other be mean sometimes, get hurt,
create a drama and forget it when it’s the other’s
turn to loose the mess in mind.
Her fingers brushed past my skin,
in a hurry to avoid what I am.
As if she knew what to avoid, what not to remind,
what must not be spoken – for the love to remain.
Only after I learnt to let my footsteps
be taken by the waves,
only after taking myself out
of every unsolved equation-
I knew enough of world to know
the scent of tears on her face,
even when her happiness was believable enough.
Once her fingers had brushed past my skin
in a hurry to avoid being found
as if she knew all places to hide, what not to show,
what not to be – for love to remain.
The strip of land
that lies in the midst
of the blue of our minds.
shall we sit face to face and talk.
We could talk of many things
you could tell me
how your hands throw away
every trinkets and prize,
only because they don’t feel as
you thought they would in your hands.
How they are too heavy on your soul
that doesn’t want to be dragged down.
How they are just things that can be lost
and are found again and again
by hands that will surely loose them again.
And you don’t actually care where they end up.
I could tell you
of my world
where all of these cold things
that your hand detest
have kept me alive,
where my hands brush away
care of others
because I am calculating
which piece of myself I would have to give away
as the cost of the kindness.
(Yes, every kindness has a cost,
even if it is never demanded.)
Because everything that has a warm heart
has a furnace of fire inside
that burns everyone equally.
But I am here sitting opposite you
and I am ready to get my heart broken.
Trust me when I say-
It takes a lot to break me.
And only when it comes to you,
I am not looking for an easy way out.
All the bits of you
the pieces of trivia,
that will never be asked anywhere,
you handed it to me-
on our way to work,
in your sleep,
in your half-audible mumbling
while you brushed your teeth.
I thought they were too much
than what I can hold,
I kept them in pockets
of any cloth that I had on me.
And after all these years
when I look for them,
just when I found my memory lacking your presence,
they were nowhere to be found.
So as you decide on what to eat
I ask you again as I often do,
about one small irrelevant fact about you
that I will soon forget.
The texture of future
as it brushes against my skin,
is same as the yesterdays
that have passed me by.