The nowhere that you talk about,
are frustrated with,
the direction that we seem to always end up these days
in spite of our best intentions,
in spite of all we want to dream of-
that nowhere is not that bad place to be.
It is vague I know, I agree.
But there is a comfort in the vagueness.
Us standing here
and not knowing where to go.
Thinking, deciding, fretting over small details
of when and how
and finally waiting for another day
and another heartbreak
before we call it quits.
and maybe it was
I do not remember
and probably won’t
till you end up doing all the things that you promised you won’t,
till I end up saying all the things I never wanted to say again.
That is when we remember everything
and are faced with feelings
that should never have existed between us
but till then,
till the day we realize what we already know
can’t we just be fine with ‘vague’?
Yesterday, a line etched on my hands
slipped away from the skin that once held it so dearly
and still I lived on as if the the fate I lived now
was the one I was destined for.
I like to call it yesterday
for it is easy to suppose that we always knew what was coming,
that the things we lost didn’t entirely go unnoticed.
When in fact most days we wake up remembering
details about things that have gone to places
where they no longer have to care whether they are still forgotten
by people like us who do such a poor job of caring for anything.
We are always too young to know or too old to bother.
All that find a way to us through this forest of sadness
are disappointed to see what we are
and try best to stay, to lurk around, to be of some use to us,
till we drop them from our mind,
and they stare us in face and try to digest the excuses
that we didn’t even care to give.
They recreated his room
to his life
and his passions.
Paid attention to each small details
that can bring back who he was.
They debated over whether he would have
had photos of certain people
in the room where he wrote
or better, have crumpled paper
that got stepped over.
But to be honest
they had no idea of who he was
whatever they recreated,
was not him.
Maybe his poems were just pieces of him
that he either rejoiced
I believe there must be parts of him
that he was not aware of,
parts of him that he never got to pen,
which he was too busy to ignore.
What if his life was not worth the show?
What if he could only be himself
outside that room?