And across this street is my old home,
the one I won’t ever visit.
This year they have painted it yellow.
How sad is that, isn’t it?
My mother hated that color.
She said that yellow kills happiness.
She said such colors convinced even a happy person,
that their smile is not enough.
Her smile, as a rule, was mostly not enough for anyone
and it made sense to me that she would hate
to compete with her wallpapers, her furniture,
her mirror, her curtains – for the sake of validating
her existence and importance.
The woman who stole our lives years later – I heard her
telling my mother
that “she was an insecure woman, that she was bound to lose”.
As if she, who paints this house now
with horrible colors every year, knew what loss is.
My mother – she liked browns and greys and greens.
She grew life out of her blood.
She loved dearly and irrationally-
whenever she sat still
and saw at us smiling and playing,
she would break into tears.
We loved her more dearly for that.
She loved that house
and the man that owns it.
She hated herself a bit too much.
She tried not to
but saving her was a work she had to do by herself
-a tiring chore, no one wanted to be part of.
She brought us the most beautiful yellow frocks one day
and looked at us, trying to love something impossible through us.
She looked at us hoping that her love for one thing
could make her bear her hate for another.
Like a fool, she believed
that her trying would mean something to this world.
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.
The discomfort of the afternoon rains
that turns into monologues,
for the one who can never be lost.
Who can only be found in sleep now.
They say what I see,
what I feel,
is what they call dream,
just a delusion to avoid.
I can feel the ground that I walk on
and can trust the hearts that I lean on?
Why must I leave this place?
Only place where I can love
and be worthy of being loved.
I remember the day that I found you
with eyes filled with yearning,
heart filled with doubt
and hands soiled with blood
of the your dreams
that you murdered everynight.
I found you in the land
where we had been banished to,
from a world of happiness
where our loved ones reside.
I remember the day I lost you
to the light
that seemed more cruel than warm.
When you found your happiness and purpose.
When you couldn’t stop humming all day.
when you talked of future with smile.
When you found out what you wanted
and what you wanted was not me.
Makes wonder if I ever really loved you
if I resent you
for having what I want.
I was on my way to a place
that only exists in my mind.
And with each footprint I left behind
it became more real.
And though I know I hated each second
of wandering without a map.
But I know I loved it too.
But sitting by this river.
Listening to water
eroding the underlying stones
one particle at time.
I think of how wonderful it would be
if I could just stop
and live here.
I spend days by the river.
I don’t know
how many more I will spend.
And slowly I feel that
there is more to life than wandering.
But I also know
that one day I will regret staying.
Not knowing where I could have been
if I had only crossed that river.
Shall I stay or keep moving?
I don’t know.
I don’t want to decide now.
Let me stay a few more days in the peace that I never found.
In the peace that I always wanted.