I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
As she places her coffee cup on the table, her eyes sting and ribs hurt to see the beautiful vase of her life dearly holding onto the oldest withered flowers of her life. Flowers were not meant to do this, she knew. She also knew she need not be like this, things need not be this way. The market is just 5 minutes away. When she has enough money to buy new gardens why lament on handful of roses, why think about people she can now never love. But the decision to forget or remember was never in her hands. And now she cannot step out and face the world – the same world who witnessed her pride and confidence in another human whose faults she refused to see till the end, the one she called her love. She felt she owed answers to every one- for loving the wrong one, for loving the wrong way, for seeking a new love, for saying yes to someone better than her, for her dissatisfaction that eats through every heart she tries to love. She didn’t want to go out and apologize for wanting.
On a spread of fake smiling suns and the unreasonably happy flowers in pink, I kissed your smile without wondering what it meant for me in the long run. Without knowing if you would want me back the way I do.
And when you held on to me I didn’t know how to stop my violent tears or how to let you know how your embrace is the only thing that feels honest to my worn out heart or how precious this honest touch, this simple love is to a person like me.
Now that we are an year apart. Now that everyone has been talking about new beginnings and second chances, I let myself be myself, let myself be swayed at the hope, at the thought of the ONE.
But being myself also means to be keep my heart broken. It means to leave every crowded room to find the corridors where I can be finally alone with the mistakes I am about to make.
I hold someone who could have been you but is not. I cry the same tears that once made you pity me. I jot down a name and a number and a weakness, a need where I could fit myself into.
And as I lay in bed I feel something sad and beautiful in my heart- an end that I am creating for myself. This is how love has always been for me, so I let it be and smile as I kiss another stranger who won’t be able to save me from anything.
Drop by drop the wax fills the bucket of broken butterflies.
I am falling into another sleep, into another death that is warm, that embraces me like no lover ever has.
I feel the pain in my wings, and unlike other days I try to think that this will never pass. That I will remain like this, with a bit of pain always there in my shoulder blades, under my ribs, aching for a memory that floats above my body, above my existence.
Someone holds my hand and I let them. I was always afraid of living and dying alone. I guess there are many like me.
Years from now they will find us and probably write stories about how we loved each other even in death. As they look at our almost ruined and almost saved faces they won’t know how we died heartbroken, how we held onto each other but never dared to look at each other or ask the names we had started to hate. How our skins melted into each other only because we had nowhere else to be. That even as light broke free from our eyes we didn’t want to look like failure.
Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
The air fills my lungs, and drowns me and now I remembering things that I shouldn’t I am remembering every moment of my incomplete death. Someone cuts a window in my chest, rips into pieces the words that shouldn’t get out. A rough skin holds me a bit too long with a bit too much force, a bit too much neglect. “ohhh…it was not love after all“, I remember thinking this as I closed my eyes wanting to forget this person who has taken half of my life, so easily. “For a brief moment I was loved“, I wanted to say this at least. I held on so long only for that sake. But now I must breathe in the air that I once thought I didn’t need as long as I had 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.