At the right turn I faced another street where someone I know once lived. For all I know, their present might still look like my ‘once ago’. From where I stand and where I see my present is their “what a nightmare, thank god it is not true/thank god it is not me.“
Maybe with their shocked and sorrowful faces they will ask me this “Tell me it is not true.“ and I will probably tell them exactly that because I do not want them to think “thank god is it not me“ or “god has been kind to me. god loves me more.“ Because maybe then, in that moment, I may hate my lovely friend and my lovely god, and the lovely lives that I am not part of.
So I take another turn, seeking other roads- roads where the ones I knows, the ones with question do not have to look at me. And I do not have to see my tragedy, my loneliness paint them as villain when they are not, when maybe they are the only ones that care.
After all this, all this that I am supposed to lose again, again with a smile I don’t mean. I am confused what it means to let go. I am confused why only I am not able to do it? Why letting go comes so easy to everyone I love? Why do only I look selfish if i don’t?
On the broken lines of bold white, on the burning roads far away from home I knelt down in the heap of my skirt made of fairy dust and disappointments of all kinds.
I found a pretty crack with space enough to be something of its own and with a style that you’d agree with. With my fingertips already crying red I wrote you name in the best writing I could.
Your name that couldn’t fit beside mine, or the scorecards with better marks, or a business card that was not a part of scam, or with a number that could for once be reached, or the nameplate that you kept losing in the sleepy playgrounds of our eyes.
We missed you.
We missed you. in the conversations where we thought only of you and yet couldn’t speak of you. We thought of you always with an ache, always with a heart that wanted more of you while wanting to forget the little that we had.
I wrote your name and ran my fingers over them again. A kid knelt down beside me offering me a smile as he took in a pain he couldn’t understand. Today, of all days, I was not allowed to smile.
I walked away wondering if he knew you, if he now lives in your name, if he knows someone who wrote like me, who wrote words that will fit nowhere but here. Your name could be anybody else’s. You could have lived like everyone else and yet…
On the tapered ends of my lips when I found your lips nestled near mine, I asked “Is this love? Is this your love?” and you answered “Obviously not.” So I told my heart to grow up. Growing up was the only way not to hurt.
On the spring infested roads, I found your hand on my melting waist.
On a nameless cold rainy day, I found the joy of walking towards you.
On a morning long gone, in my graceless fall into the mess of my mind, I came to knew the strength of your hands.
On the narrow pavements made for one as I walked behind you I realized how impossible it is to forget you.
On all such days that I made a point never to mark on any calendar, on all the days I tried to forget, I found the question again and again “Is this love?” Again I looked away from you to avoid hearing the answer that would hurt a lot more now.
I guess I never grew up or growing up only deepens my heart, only makes it worse.
I sat among friends and smiled when they took your name and placed it carefully beside mine.
I laughed, had another drink, looked away, hiding in myself holding dearly the part of you beating in me.
As I negated every joke made at our expense, knowing how silly it all was. I realized, this – our ridiculously sweet love, our hearts filling and overflowing with a happiness so unreal, how I feared losing it all.
We once loved this world more than ourselves. Now we just like everything only as much as our own temperaments and thoughts permit.
The oranges reminds him of view from his broken home, the sour taste of everything that should have been beautiful.
The glowing beads fill my mind with the images of meaningless gifts, the faces of men and friends that always fall short even in the face if my plummeting expectations.
Going out of our way to hide is the measure of our love somehow. We sit across each other for every meal and talk about things that make sense, everything and anything that can’t cause more harm than the things close to our heart have already done.
I feel the rustle of a world buried deep in me, he must feel the same. But the world that is lost and the hope that is no longer mine can only do so little. There is a happiness that doesn’t look enchanting. There is a kindness that isn’t grand. There are things only we can be for each others even if there are thousand things we can’t.
I would have told him “I love you” if I didn’t know how hearing these words have only made him cry. He lets me love within the boundary of my temperament and thoughts, he stands by these walls and knows why they are for.
At a bus stand in front of mall (that I have never been to) I learnt how to wait and how to live with disappointments without making a big deal of it.
In the bracket of an hour, I grew smaller than I ever thought I could be. “this is what love does to you, this is what love does to all of us”, all the voices in me lied. I was again weary of the love that I had chosen and the person I had trusted (“again” – the word that showed me the real reason why it would never work out).
I stood beside strangers on the crowded bus stand, awkwardly crying. I counted these not-so-scary strangers who were trying to become one skin. I pretended that I hated to be rained on as much as they did. I pretended that I didn’t mind their warmth, that my suspicious mind was not at work again.
Hours went by, empty roads faithfully stayed empty. I became more aware of the boundaries of my body I became aware of the person who would never come looking for me, who would look at the three hour long rain and still won’t wonder what happened to me.
We all stood there, pretending to be the only human in the group of zombies who had taken over a bus stand out of boredom, who stared at the wide road, the darkness beyond, and the emptiness behind as if their eyes were made to witness only this moment. I closed my eyes and hummed something, anything that could drown the presence of everyone who knew the sound of my breaking heart now.
At a bus stand, that could protect no one, we all dreamt of the worst- of the submerged road, a rain that will never stop, the cold that would take us down for days, children forever waiting, of the lightning we could hear but not see
of a love painlessly ending and a heart that shamelessly survived.
His face lit up with the death of every colorful explosion in the sky. He hates this sky on other days (among other things). Today he loves it, this darkness, this crowd, even me. (Maybe not me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me now. But in moments like this I am reminded of the “me” who would have wanted his love or at least be part of the world that can be loved. The ‘past me’ shakes off my hand and stands there looking at him as if he is her sky, but only finds the signs of deaths that have nothing spectacular about them. I stand there looking at my sadness, his sadness breathing the air and living some sort of life for once.) He stands there looking at the sky through my silence, through my awe, awe at his simple happiness. (How long has it been since he has loved anything with his breaking heart.) He stands there looking at the sky even when curtain of stars resurface, even when the screams of children dissolve. He stands there abandoned by the world and yet happy. (I stand there abandoned by him, by myself and yet happy)
the trees sway behind me they tower and droop and die above the cold parked cars. i hear the sounds that i couldn’t till last night it is music to my ears and “warnings of ruin” to my mind. the green monster, the metal carriage, and their lonely helpless master face the direction of ocean. if we were bigger, if everything before us could melt, if i could understand distances, if i could drive we could have met a love by that ocean, we could have called ourselves friends in that molten world, i could have told them about the human dread of dying, we could have laughed over it, and the tree would have held me and my broken and beaten car in its motherly gaze and we wouldn’t worry whether this happiness could heal us or not.