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?
wave after wave of cold air, of sad premonitions reached us, tried to convince us that this was a really bad idea. that on a cold day like this there were easier ways to find warmth, ways that would take away no part of us.
and frankly i was afraid. i stopped maybe a million times on my tracks. i waited for someone to call me to remind me of something really urgent that needed my attention. i almost prayed for you to give up.
but you kept walking. you kept repeating that this would be fun. so even when your hands were shaking and even when your eyes were red, i chose not to notice it. i chose to believe that your heart is stronger, that you would get us there.
you were always better at pretending for my sake. you pretended to know all the answers while i shamelessly hid behind you when doubts barked at me on streets. so when we walk on the river that could melt any day, any moment i wanted you to lean on my heart for once.
my fearful weak heart was the only thing i could give. i knew my love would last only moments and yours would last an eternity. but selfishly i held onto you. so when i kissed you and you smiled, i want to say i felt sad and guilty, but i did not. i was just happy, probably the happiest on this planet to have touched this sun, this spring, this filler of all voids, to have become the reason you will break. i really am the worst.