All the spring’s color have been molten and poured into the broken casts of summer. They seep into ground, into autumn leaves that falls in every space between you and me. They sing something for us again as we shiver and stop ourselves from giving in, as you hold back from saying every word that can fix me (at least for now). I google how to kill feelings that don’t let me eat or speak or smile. I bite my lips trying to bury the words that would shine in your colors, if you were to look at me. If you were to look at me, you would be only sad to know how unchangeable my heart is.
You tear sheet after sheet, rip them out of calendar and hand them to me. We burn 11 months, saving only December, because you never know. There is a knock on our door, someone who is lost brings in the chilled wind, the fine dust of snow, and voices celebrating something we will never understand. I wait for you to come back and settle into you warm sleep. I sit at the foot of the sofa, and think about the one time I dreamt of death. I was looking out of window waiting for you and you came back with new pair of eyes that never settled on me, and when I was almost about to cry you moved towards me with a dying sparrow in your trembling hands. It lay on its side with its soft violent gasp for breath that were perfectly in sync with mine.
I wanted to play this winter song on the brightest day of spring. Maybe at least in that way I will be able to mourn for something that I should have been happy to leave behind. But the snowflakes in me drift into the world and become butterflies of someone else’s heart. All my songs now belong to sun, they belong to scent of summer fruits, they fall as unpredicted rain on the windows I closed just in time. Anyway, I had to learn this sooner or later. How can I keep believing in my own feelings, on the things that were supposed to never change, never melt after losing half of my winters to the green winds of change. As I place all my “old dreams that don’t suit the new me” away from my reach, I wonder if the only way to save the dignity of my old sincerity is to lock it way from my own skeptical, mocking eyes?
In the shade of a fruitless spring-less tree as I tried to recall and write down all the phone numbers I once knew by heart, I looked at the sky and laughed for thinking too highly of myself and thinking too little about my heart. That is the last thing I remember before I was possessed.
Oddly I always remember this point of contrast marked by the last tear I actually cried. Whatever now had made home in me convinced me that I could be complete even if I stay as who I am, that I could stand in this world witnessing beauty, love, companionship, faith, life and be happy even if it could do nothing for me, even if they were not mine.
Someone, who couldn’t possibly have been me, lived my life in my place from that moment, and I never had to wonder again if I am allowed to live like this. I never picked up another paper I threw in the trash. I now never tried to play the role of the one with bigger heart. I was finally free of hope, of love, of being myself. Now it was the work of whoever wanted this body, whoever wanted my life.
I tried many times to write about you, to tell the world why I loved you once even when it makes no sense now.
Now, when the days in the sun seem like a dream, seem like a ruse, seem like a bait to everything that just gets worse. Now, when all that we once were glad to believe in and that we were has caused us to write this end.
This end where I have my own sky but end up looking at the fields below the harvest, the drought, the spring, the festivals that you live. This end, where your day always ends with looking for that bird who foolishly broke her wings for you, among the birds who only dream of flying.
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.
Her floor had always been the color of the season I remember this, only when I step into the mess of her life. The spring issues lay scattered like the flowers The pink, red, yellows, and greens, women who only know youth, women who only grow younger the kind of woman she wanted to be (what a small impossible dream) and she almost is. And now that she can never change would she be happy? When/if she comes across her own lifeless eyes in the missing posters would she be glad to be one of the “sad popular”? I shatter the home of her missing goldfish in my haste efforts to pick them up and put them out of sight- the bundles of glossy paper that my eyes can’t handle. I try to put them away, wanting to throw them away now that she wouldn’t mind, now that she won’t yell at me or anyone for taking away too much of her. I want to try it. i want to try, so she has no option but to stop me. “let’s leave her in peace” tells me my moral compass and my grief. “i don’t want to show her the kind of respect that only dead deserve” shouts back my anger and my love. I drop the heaviest bag in this world on her rain soaked bed. Her last dress, her last chocolate wrapper, her last bus ticket, her last mistake, her last breath everything spilling out, everything ruining the spring that I dreamed for her along with her.
Spring and love are running around in a circle in my mind. My mind and its gray backdrop die with a soft giggle. The sky rains a gentle voice saying my name on repeat. A voice I pretend not to know rings like a telephone in my room as I stare at it from my bed.
Spring and love are in my life again and all I can do is wait for the world to go back to the time of silence, so I can go back to nursing my weak heart and find something easy to do than love.
if i carry a flower in my heart. if i could name this flower after myself and i walk into rooms where i do not belong and tried to become a garden, become a spring to all the orbs of winter walking past me, would they stop and look into my eyes and see the effort, the sincerity i am putting to flower one last time?