Their torn ends, their disappearing body, the plastic wings at the corner of the shallow pockets (that were actually good for nothing) now look like a teardrop determined to stand till the very end. Isn’t it all so ridiculous, laughable, and sad? The blue that never dies – doesn’t it fill you with anger at the unfair paces each component of this world moves? The half alive part of everything cursing the other broken half for taking them down as well. Isn’t it a bit too noisy here to miss or accept anything?
(Or am I the only one?)
All the treasures are now at the pawn shops, and the bottom shelves of the rooms and houses, countries, and identities abandoned, in the words that belong to pseudo names and ‘anonymous’, in the trash cans of people who swear never to love you again. They lie deleted and dumped under the bridges whose shadow rubs your back as you try to vomit out the leftover love eating your heart.
While everything to be thrown away is always there in the cupboard, in the handbags, on the sofa, in your phone talking up extra space, waiting for you to forget them, get fed up of them, waiting for you to throw them away, so that they can haunt you, so they can be your another true love. Till they are your sole teardrop when it all ends.
He was somewhere upstairs running barefoot on the dusty floors of the broken house. I could hear him even when I stood waiting in the backyard staring at all the rusty memories, feeling the stare of people who will never leave this place, who may never leave me again now that I fear them for never actually dying. I tried not to love him as I stood alone waiting for him to get bored of all this.
I was too afraid to be with him when he was like that. when he read aloud poems about death out of the blue, and read them as if they were the only true declaration he could make to the world, the only true word that he could say to his life. I would only later find out that they were written by someone else – someone who lived in a difficult to pronounce country. He loved things like that – taking up the clothes of emotions of others and wrapping himself up in them as he walked into all the unknown lives that oddly had a room reserved just for him.
And always, I would be outside waiting for the sun to set, for his heart to ease, to be there when he decides to come back to reality for good. I didn’t realize that footsteps had ceased long ago, and so had his breath. So I stood there letting my heart run barefoot on the floor of delusion, in the world where he exists. I waited for my love to give up on him. I was afraid of being me when my love stop, won’t look back at me.
I roll down my window hoping for the first time that I knew how to drive so that I wouldn’t have a confused witness to my impulse of moving forward by a mile and falling down by a heartbeat.
“Is everything alright?”, he asks me too often. I don’t bother to calm him down by saying ‘yes’ as I was doing an hour ago. Nothing I say can now convince him of my normality. So I let him drive and let myself collapse. I bury my face in my lap and breathe better by suffocating myself a little bit more.
He hums a song that reminds me of the love that now lives in a country I have not seen in a life that I will always guess inaccurately with a girl who has a serious case of klemptomania. Last time I called the stolen one, I was given a sorry and an address of a better therapist.
I let my ring burn my heart. I ask the driver to leave me somewhere no one can find me knowing he will not, he will take me home just like he doesn’t everyday, and he will make sure to greet me with a kind forgetfulness the next morning.
I wish I had kept more strangers like him in my life, someone who would worry about me.
In every country, in every city, on every street stands a home that could have been ours. I am a daydreamer like that As I passed the house with an always crying child, as I passed the house with the overwhelming smell of incense, as I passed the house with singing reality shows played on repeat I only thought of the life we could have there. In my mind, we fit every house, we fit every role. Even if our body was stripped of every muscles and every bone even if we put back together the wrong way, even if we our heart were to be rearranged, in my mind we would still fall in love. That is how we had molded the spirit of our love- to be stubborn (if not right or just). But now there are years when I don’t remember you, and yet there is no sadness in me that is capable of ruining me. You are gone and I am trying to grieve for something I don’t particularly miss. As I pass the houses where our stories used to be staged I realize they are again the buildings of strangers that I am supposed to keep my mind away from. My sadness selfishly keeps uttering, “I need to love someone, someone who won’t do this to me. I need to love someone, to believe in love again.” I reach home with bloody nails and bruised fingers leaving behind bricks with our names scratched out.
The list of all the words that I use and don’t know meaning of:
friend, understanding, dream, ethics, distance, space, wait, promise, family, kindness, virtue, trust, love, love, love, love, love, love, (I was told I need to be especially obsessed with love if I want to be normal) I, me, memory (real or invented), boundary between reality and fiction…
What a poor human I am that I carry around these empty shells pretending as if I know their worth. All the flags that I carry of the countries to which I do not belong. All the people who I live with, only because I cannot live without them. What an excuse to walk on this road that will eventually to lead to a heartbreak. Every heartbreak a drop on my window and it has been monsoon for years altogether. What a sloppy way to end all things that I never wanted to begin.
I do not draw you.
But my memory of you.
A time in my life,
the moment lost.
With only a memory left behind
that withers everyday.
I do not draw you
to preserves you,
who lives well off
in a warm home
in a cold country.
But I draw you
who lit my mind,
and froze my heart in an eternal hope
The only you I could ever love,
yet never love.
The one who burns my life
one day a time.
The one who I must forget.
There is somewhat
a hesitancy in me
to I pick up the call
The ring sounds different.
It has a shaky sound
immitating the hands
that must be struggling to hold
phone in the very hand
through which countries of stories
have slipped into darkness.
who must feel like a character
who has lost his story.
And I am afraid
I can’t offer him
the words that can build up his life back,
that can calm his chaotic breathing,
and shuddering heart.
I can’t do it.
Because I was once on the other side
and my hands are still shaking.
I turn around in my bed all night
trying to reassure the only heart
that I can heal.