In that room
seated along with my anxious heart,
my crumbling forevers, and my noisy pen,
You are now more colorful than ever-
more real, more present.
You are more you that before,
more of a person that I ever could be.
I envied you and loved you for that- that I remember.
I realize there other things that I don’t remember well,
as you put on the record
of “50 greatest pointless questions of all time”,
as you sharpen the edges of your weak hollow anger,
as you ask me to play a harmless game,
another try at the precious once-in-a-lifetime love,
another guess, another stab, another cut,
another laughter echoing and tearing
everything that almost made me human,
another try, another guess, another endearing laugh
at the sight of my tears.
I had decided that won’t flinch, that I won’t cry.
I looked at the paper again
that said that I am not actually hurt,
that everything I suffer from is a making of my mind,
that I am just too scared,
too lonely to think straight ever again.
I looked at it wanting to believe it
but also knowing I won’t allow this paper to fix this for me.
For even to this image- this violent beautiful ghost of you,
even to this- I felt I owed something.
I still waited for you to give up.
It still mattered to me – this confirmation-
that what I loved
also loved me back in some twisted way.
So I nodded yes to another rounds of wrong guess,
to this game I won’t ever win.
The shoes I am wearing
are wearing thin.
I feel my clothes trying,
trying hard to slip out of me
and I don’t try to hold onto them.
That is how I have always been.
I see an appproaching death,
the sihouette of another ending
that I won’t be able to take
and I order another drink,
I put down the book
that was getting a bit more real
that I expected it to be,
and I wait with open eyes
to witness the truth of every undoing
that is in my fate.
This is me-
the one who cries absurdly
at a broken sole, at my frayed edges,
at a day-long, a month-long, an year-short love,
the one who tries to mean “till the end”.
The one who can only smile
when called cruel and cold-
that is also me.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully
to the edge of the table,
where your glass stands.
At the edge where you place your suitcase,
where you always tie your laces once again
just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love
when you think I might lend something of me
to keep such place alive,
to keep you warm while you keep the door open
like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget
when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky,
when your new birds keep singing songs
of ‘soulmates’ with better specification
when it becomes your new caller tune,
when you think of the best version of your life.
You think of that too often, quite loudly
for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.”
“i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“
“call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“
“call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“
“call me. meet me. i want us to end.“
“you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“
“you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself.
i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything
that I dangerously left at the edges
just to be your equal, just to make sense of you-
I am glad I have claimed back my madness
instead of trying to understand yours.
I am glad I do not have to live my life
compensating for your weakness, calling it love.
From my empty room,
from the edge of my personal cliff,
I looked into the windows of strangers,
looked over their shoulder at texts they write,
looked at the pages where their bookmark rests,
silently waited at the edge of my chair
trying to overhear responses to the big questions.
And all I have known by prying so hard
is that there is nothing there.
Nothing in the text that could pass for shorthand.
The same book rests on the same table for years,
serving only the role of a carefully thought out accessory.
No question is big enough to be carefully considered.
No relationship is important enough to be held to heart.
That I was foolish to believe otherwise till now.
That I am putting myself on another path to heartbreak
if I do not believe in the night that I see.
I must unlearn the way I have lived
to find a place to belong.
In between the cold beginning and cruel ends
that are the parentheses of our lives,
there is nothing for me to hang on to.
But it helps to know
that there are plenty of empty rooms in this painful smaller eternity,
that I need not kill myself over an emptiness so common.
And it is really difficult to feel alone once I know that.
once in a while
we move to the edge
that separates what we are
from what we can be.
we try to look as far as we can
and tell ourselves ‘we don’t want that’.
but what is it that we see there?
what is it this we can never ignore?
why are do we find ourselves trying to catch a glimpse of
all that we don’t want to be?
my moments at that edge have always brought me tears.
and i never know what my heart hurts for, yearns for, mourns for-
the ‘now’ that can easily be lost?
or the life i can never move towards?
Most my life is about
standing at the edge with the others
and choosing whether to push them first
or giving up on myself, by throwing myself away.
And all my decisions have ended up
in wait for someone else to decide my fate.
Wait long enough to think we are friends
who are here watching the world set on the sun,
wait long enough to feel betrayed by the choice
I myself would have made
at some point.
But I think there may have been iterations
that I choose not to remember
where I was the one who severed my feelings for others
with series of selfish decision.
That is probably why
even when I fall
instead of feeling resentment,
I say to myself
“suffer a little more, pay it all off
that is all that is left too do now.”
On evenings such as these
when the all the withered flowers of my heart
have regained the life that once left them,
when I have known what is it to die,
when I have known how rare it is to find a road back to life
when I have known the pain of losing,
I feel even now I can try once more.
I can try to hold your hand.
I can try, I can stand at the edge once again
because even though you are not mine yet,
but the thought of days without you
seems grayer and sadder than all that I have suffered.
No, I won’t die. It won’t pain even if you don’t end up with me.
But the possibility of a life with you
has made me a bit more greedy.
I have started expecting a bit more from life
and you are the only difference
between between my now and my dream.
On evenings such as these
when the soil of my heart have been dug too deep,
have seen the seasons of happiness
that never stays,
when it has known how tiring life can be
and finding my way back once
doesn’t mean I won’t be lost again.
Though the memories of your smiles
are as fresh as the ones of filled with your resentment.
I find my heart filled with nothing but you.
I am where I once was
and I want to stay here forever
always in love with you.
Praying for one more day with you.
Praying to always be the one who gets your love.
Even when you are here,
even when you are mine
I want you more,
a little bit more of you.
I can only go as far as my muscle memory takes me.
Since my mind is not here
and I can’t leave this body
that I have never been able to accept as mine.
There is a road that lies in front of me
and there is nothing for me to do
but to walk.
You bring me back to present
and ask me where I have been.
There is a place that I left lifetimes ago,
where I am searching for the reason of my grief.
There is a sun that rises only in the heart of the lost,
there is a mist I live in that you cannot see.
I can stand at any edge and be sure I won’t fall.
I can reach out for any happiness that I am sure I can’t have
and nothing will hurt me more than that.
There are losses that I am counting,
there are bruises I must count as gain only because of love.
Every hope I find
becomes a reminder of something I have already lost.
Can you teach me-
how to go about this life,
how to get rid of this part of me
that can only love the past?
The moon shines in my tear lined eyes.
On the edges of my nails that have lost their color.
Tonight once again
light falls on only on those bits of me
that are in no need for the love of a neutral god.
as I ate,
as I looked around
at the woodwork,
at the dull decorations on the wall,
at the TV show without sound,
as I made way from lifting spoon again and again
swallowing my way through the alieniating conversation,
through the one chunk of time filled with boredom
to the next changing into sadness.
I felt I missed you both.
I am not certain if that’s what it was,
but I recall all the thoughts in my mind,
all their frayed edges,
ending with conclusion
that, “Food tastes better with them.”