I wanted to tell him
“You have not lost much.
For sunsets you missed
are not even there in the hearts of those
who saw it everyday.
They walked past it,
shut their windows tight,
and sat in their darkest caves
trying to run away from what you want so deeply.”
I almost said to him
that even though it hurts,
it is a hurt I would like to have-
to yearn for the things that never happened.
That unlike him I yearned for things
that I walked over and killed.
Things that I can still see and hear
in my dreams, telling me, showing me
all the marks of my hatred on their skin, on their hearts.
I cry for them, look for them,
seek forgiveness from them when I am awake.
I dread them when they find me in sleep.
I almost confessed to him
that being the maker of caves, a lover of sunsets,
being the one who filled half the world and half the hearts
with a blindness even I can’t cure,
maybe I shouldn’t be his savior,
maybe I shouldn’t be relied upon for answers.
In rooms like these
my hollowness becomes real.
It becomes an ant that won’t stop walking
with its tiny feet across the span of my hands,
a felling that won’t rest.
It feels like the rain
that falls and fills everything before me.
Leaving me alone. Alone to think of you.
again I find in you
a reason to run away?
I wrap your moonlight around me.
I melt this rose of tears.
I melt myself and my shields
so that you can see me as I see you.
In rooms like these,
with your hope in me
I can’t help but close my eyes
and dream of finding me in front of you
holding onto my heart
and you finally smiling back.
a reason to run away
I look at my bleeding hopes,
unlike you I have not yet learnt
how to not hurt.
So I bleed silently, fearing
I might be the wrong answer,
fearing the regrets that you might discover
the hurt you might know
due to the imperfections that I collect
and fill myself with.
Every time I dream of you
the rose in my heart melts a little more.
The melting drops burn my eyes.
There is only pain in the place where you used to be.
he sings the most beautiful song.
that the sky becomes a reflection of the heart
that he can barely carry in himself.
the words on his lips
they break, they sound different,
they sound like the first cry of a baby-
the violent coming to life.
they run and collide and shatter
against the rough indifferent surface
of this dying world, a not-so-bad world.
he becomes a not-so-bad singer.
as he runs out of breath and love
someone places a coin of gold in his hands.
he means to feel grateful for this compensation,
but all he can do is hold his tongue, hold his tears.
hold his bitterness in himself
and sing another song dreaming, waiting
for an honest reply, a genuine care,
an understanding gaze in return for laying bare his humanness.
They forgot to teach me
the most basic thing-
to know which side I should take
to keep a check on papers, to see sense
when someone tells me what is politically right
and to agree when they tell me that identity is everything
not only mine, but of all those who live on same piece of land as me.
They forgot to tell me to fight and argue
in the name of and for the sake of people
who didn’t care about the fight,
who were fine living the way they did.
I ended up believing
that I could just exist without belonging to any shore
and maybe make my own
and pray that no one joins me
and turn my life into something to live by.
How could they have overlooked this ,
didn’t they foresee how I would sit awkwardly
midst strangers and have nothing to say
about how the world was run.
Would they consider me silly,
would they think that I am shallow
if I was thinking about the fictional character from a story
and his conflicts?
Would they judge me if the story in question was not about
wars, rivalry or mid-life crisis
but one of romantic ones with cheesy lines
that everyone seems to detest?
They should have told me to memorize lines from papers
and opinion columns
and pass it as my own,
when I was not interested to form opinions
on topics that seemed to be of grave importance to others.
I should know better than to write poems on love and sadness
when people are dying around me.
But I don’t.
I think I may have been brought up the wrong way
and there is nothing I can do about it now.
But I am not even sure whether
I want to fix the things
that I asked to feel ashamed of.
Are all theses plights
the conflicting voices of various people
or the wavering heart of each one?
I have a habit of breaking promises
especially when I mean to keep them.
I have found I am no longer the one
who made those promises.
Know that when I see you
my heart beats a little different now.
There is a tinge of anger and blame
that can only be felt for the ones we love.
And probably because we still love them
even when we know that we shouldn’t.
I tried to forget you.
I tried to forgive you.
I have failed at both.
And promises are least of my worries.
To some extent
I always knew
that there must be something in your heart
that resists my presence.
Which is in conflict
whether in flesh or in soul
because of me.
And still craves more of me.
I think your heart never got used to me.
It just got used to resisting me.
You just need my presence in your life
to maintain the state of chaos and struggle
that has now become your natural habitat.