“All I Can Do” – Nayana Nair

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If all I can do
is to write up my pain
that will fill itself every morning again.
And hide the evidence of my weakness
on pages
that burn with longing for the fading ink,
the ink that longs to see
those eyes from whom they were meant to hide.
Then I am just moving my feelings
from one dark cage to another.
They continue to grasp for air,
even if the hands that choke them have changed.

“Sparkler’s Trail” – Nayana Nair

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The duration of time we speak of as days
is just our stories breaking and bleeding
from moment to another.
The fragments of our memories
are just bookmarks to pages
with words that has been long erased.
And all that we are left with
are threads of time suspended in our eyes,
that really isn’t here
and yet it is the only thing we have
and the only thing we want.

“I remember you waiting” – Nayana Nair

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The momentary happiness
of the warm embraces.
These gifts of few seconds
have become our only curse.
For this life never lives upto
the beauty of those seconds.
And now we can only live on
in form of secrets in our books.
These seconds, these pages are where
our story stopped.
I remember you
sitting under trees
waiting for the your tears to melt,
for your vision was frozen in a past.
For you knew too late.
You found who were yours
only when looking back.

“Loss” – Nayana Nair

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Surely we have
at least a page in every book we write,
where we brood over
all the things we lost.
And I have often found that page to be
most meaningful.
As if we become better humans
by this loss.
Often on those pages,
I have realized,
not all losses
are to be cried upon.

“Trace” – Nayana Nair

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I will trace your tears
through the meteor shower,
through the footsteps that you followed,
through the hands that you held,
through the hearts that you broke,
through the marks on your skin,
through the lost and found columns,
through the moist flower placed in you books,
through that crossed out name, on every page.
I will trace your tears
that will lead back to me.
And say what needs to be said.
An apology.
An apology that you never got.
An apology that you deserved.

“Better without us” – Nayana Nair

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The dust that lay on the page
that I left open long ago
is now a page on it’s own,
with a story its own.
I look at it and read
negligence and loneliness.
I read how things are forgotten
so easily
and how things are treated as things
by people who
live their life accumulating things
and rest half of it
misplacing, destroying,
replacing and forgetting them.
How people are treated on similar lines
but worse.
How we come back to claim our possessions
when they can clearly exist better
without us.

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“Flower” – Nayana Nair

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I pluck one leaf at a time
from this flower, this script
my life is.
I throw them from bridges
on cold evenings.
I bury them in the soil
that soils their print with time.
I burn them to ashes,
so they won’t smell the same.
I hang them on trees
that will never bear fruits.
To leave this story of mine
everywhere and nowhere.
So that you may find it.
So that you may not find it.
But
I wear the last page, last leaf
with only one word, you name, written,
on my finger
as substitute for you hands
that I can no longer hold.

“Sleep” -Nayana Nair

Night Reading

It has been ages
since I wanted to sleep.
I feel tired and exhausted.
I feel an urge to dip myself
in cold cold water.
So I could get rid of this heaviness
in my soul.
I feel like running and crying
and cursing
and speaking all the stuff
that make no sense.
I do not remember the last time
when I wanted to sleep.
I sleep because I have to.

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I am not short of sleep
I am short of hours and minutes
to live my life.
I want to stay awake
and see the clock ticking by.
How pages of book sound different
when turned at the silence of night.
I mean to read poems all night
But I never seem to read enough.
Just a little.
Just enough
to remember how vast this void is
that I’m trying to fill.
How impossible this task.
How less the time.

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“For my own sake” – Nayana Nair

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While I read,
the string of worlds,
the ribbon of words,
gets broken, gets tainted
by my own skewed perspective of world.
I don’t see other’s story
as a story.
I see them as manuals,
as guides,
to solve my own life.
My mind replaces each word
each face, each sorrow
with my own.
Till I no longer know
whose sorrow is it,
that fills me up and weighs me down,
whose memories
blurs my sight.

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What is written and what I read
are most often not the same.
And if ever
stories were meant to
understand this world.
I have not done it.
Every word I read,
every page I turned
was for my own sake.