In the age of breaking, all my classmates swarmed to the dead pools in summer. They ironed their skin with the heat I couldn’t bear. With a smudged color on their lips, their never resting pupils, the pamphlets of their anxious laughter that they passed to each other, the crumpled remains they walked upon they looked like imitations of greek statues and love stories gone wrong. They looked like people who joke about drowning and dying and the love that killed them in their sleep. “They are too young to know about love and pain” someone said on TV, even as we built an ugliest everlasting fire out of the promises the world couldn’t keep.
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 remember your hands and their warmth like i remember the versions of me that were easier to live with (or so i think). the colors, their unnatural brightness, the scent of acetone always lingering on the tips of your fingertips, always hiding a sad rainbow (just my type). always a star that you forgot to rub and break, shined on your skin. under my lips, they shined brighter than my world. i swam to them as they stood in a world of darkness in the shapes of you and me. it is so odd that in my constantly breaking and building and growing brain and its images and meaning- everything about you meant love. i loved your flower hairpins and fake bullets and the magazines of the the people you would rather be and the window you glanced out of when didn’t want to look at me and your back against mine. it is odd that i could love you so even when i didn’t know why?
It snowed all night. All night I created stars for your eyes. I bore the weight of the roof as you slept, cried, ate, smiled, memorized dial tones, stared at me like you stare at screens with static, paused expectantly as you told me the story about your friend who is filled to brim with sugar and seems bit odd when he tries to smile a little bit more always, filled me with a momentary fear of whether you saw the corners of my lips tearing up everyday.
I felt again the illusion of love breaking, its crack trying to find my spine. Again you ran to me, trying to hold me, trying to look over all the parts of me that you don’t understand.
I slept and felt the snow of years settling on me. I felt your wings fluttering around in my head. I held the hands of god in my tiny fingers and said with a smile, “make me a flower, if you can” “make me something that is beautiful in her eyes” “give me another sorrow, something simple, something that can be understood and loved by her” “let me look at her, without feeling the breaking in my heart”.
But now I am not me anymore. Now I cannot hate myself like I used to before. Liking myself was never option, for me anyway. If only I could be one person with a constant heart, maybe then I could have understood myself with enough time, could have found the heart to see myself as a mere human that I am. But this, this possession of my body and my heart by a new unknown everyday is tiring. Today the loneliness that I couldn’t show, the songs I was supposed to forget, the kiss that never left my lips all become my new self. Tomorrow it will be something else. But it is a tiring relief to lose my hate to confusion.
i read this on a torn sheet of paper that was lying, waiting (possibly for me?) in that empty hall, that on a normal day has never known empty. and being who i am, this again had to be an easy answer from a higher power. being who i was i believed that the confusion in my mind rocked every throne in heaven. so again i assumed as i said i never would, that these must be the words that could solve me. never mind the context, never mind the book or it’s title. there is so much missing and this paper still remains it might mean something, it must mean something, everything had to mean something for me to somehow go on. it said “your desire would burn away, the moment you let it have your words” so i uttered your name with the place you have in my heart. i mustered up enough courage to speak of the place i wanted in you. it sounded dubious and shallow. it sounded so much like me that i thanked myself for not saying it to you. i made a clean tear through that piece of paper for being too right and being too wrong and walked away wanting now to become a better vessel, the person on whose lips these words would really sound the way they felt i walked away waiting for my mind and your heart to become good enough for those feelings.
he sings the most beautiful song. so beautiful that the sky becomes a reflection of the heart that he can barely carry in himself. the words on his lips they break, they sound different, feel different, they sound like the first cry of a baby- the violent coming to life. they run and collide and shatter against the rough indifferent surface of this dying world, a not-so-bad world. he becomes a not-so-bad singer. as he runs out of breath and love someone places a coin of gold in his hands. he means to feel grateful for this compensation, but all he can do is hold his tongue, hold his tears. hold his bitterness in himself and sing another song dreaming, waiting for an honest reply, a genuine care, an understanding gaze in return for laying bare his humanness.
In our reflection in the disappearing stream you look like the golden deer that I am not supposed to want. The water angels, one of which we might end up eating for dinner tonight, swims into my face, distorting the light in my eyes, splitting my lips, my cheeks, my smile into two, into four, into hundred, into thousand pieces of light. Till I am forced to admit that I must stop here. So I leave, making my last excuse. I walk away trying to forget the monstrous face I wear when I am at the verge of breaking the world for my wants.
I wanted to write something about you, before I start forgetting- who you were, who i was with you, how we lived, and how we learned how to not live, how we felt the extremes of helplessness, with each other.
But I do not want to be the only voice actor in this otherwise silent movie. I could never read your lips. I never moved mine. But it should have been enough. You convinced me that I would be enough for you.
But as I suspected you knew too little of yourself. As I knew, my love also had limitations. We hated what we saw in each other. So you covered your eyes with anger, I covered mine with fear. And all we did for years is to sing to each other about the loneliness that we had gifted each other.
If only we could give up on ourselves earlier, we may not have suffered so bad, we might not have hated each other so much.
I wish what we had was something shallow. But it was not, our wounds are proof of that.
Lets just say that we would live on just fine and try to believe in that as long as we can.
Now that I am made of evening skies, if I move into that night, I can’t ever return. The one who tastes the morning sun, the one who kisses your lips, the one who somehow lives on won’t be me. So let me remain this beautiful. Let us stop here. The snow would be here soon and time would bring us small doses of the soothing forgetfulness. See how you start to love me again when your heaven and your heart give up on all their rules.