The sandstorm is just another setting for this story to continue. There are no trees in our desert that could be broken. There are only lights that learn to flicker, there is only skin that knows what this wind carries, there are only roads that will drown.
With half closed eyes you walk out to search for what you have left behind. With half closed door I wait for you to return. I find another quote in another book foretelling the loveless life that will continue henceforth. Another book, another friend I must burn for speaking the truth, for wanting my best.
I am destined to die on the night of a full moon without a reason, without a witness, with a piece of broken mirror becoming a new part of my body- another prophesy that I wish you had not gifted me.
Three fairies sleep in our bed, who do not yet know the violence of your broken heart. I hope you get what you cry for, I hope you forget our names, I hope this storm saves us from every moon, every sky. I hope this storm saves us from you.
The sun in your eyes sets so slowly. I need to remind myself that this is not the end. This is not the end. This is not the end. This is but a chasm left open for the love to see. For the love to see and for this love to grow into the darkness we hide from each other, from this world, from our own eyes. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me today, tomorrow she may not, she will love me as long as she can. These are the words I got to say and suffer over, again and again. These are the words that made me walk a little bit more. Is there anything more beautiful than this? That you were the light, the wind, the silence, the flickering hope in my heart. How can I lose you, when you are all that I am.
And every morning I hear wind, I hear birds, I hear children play around in me. I am filling myself with everything that reminds me of what I really am. I let my heart do what it wants, my heart wants no part in this remaking of me. It starts it’s days praying for your return and goes to sleep, thankful that you won’t.
My mind that understands is chained and crippled by its understanding. It only tries to understand new words by comparing it to what has already written or read. It only understands feelings in terms of the pain it has given or all it has suffered.
So when I stand in front of the doors of a poem feeling the sting of December winds on my back. When I ring the doorbell and hear from other side “May I come inside?” I immediately know that this not something that I understand, that there is a difference in reading as if sitting on the couch in a stranger’s house waiting to be entertained and reading as if I have let the stranger in my own mind and allowed him to change the view I have of this world.
Some poems are not just poems.
They are voices that never die
because they have never been born.
They are ghosts that we have always wanted to haunt.
They are names we give to our own suffering,
a closure that only we can give to ourselves.
When the wind blows
there are no branches to shake,
no windows to rattle,
no forgotten clothes to be abducted from my backyard,
no ghost songs to invite me to new nightmares.
Only your imagined face,
that looks nothing like you these days,
in these lifeless eyes
Making you almost real,
making me wonder
what is the distance in time
that I must travel,
how much should I age,
how much should my mind wither,
for you to disappear?
How many sins I should commit
so that my hands are not stained
only by your tears.
We sit here all day, in our own corners. The only corner that we could save from the world that we left. The only piece of happiness we decided to carry on ourselves because we didn’t wanted to be considered pitiful for clinging to something. Because once we thought that feelings such as these are only hindrance. Because we saw love as lint on our fine clothing, something that should be removed like weeds from the garden of our ambition. Believed that if we are enough, if we have enough we can always find new friends and new love.
In the wind, there always used to be a rumor of someone drunk on past, the one who used to shout and sing at midnight songs about how nothing new he bought, no one new he gave his heart to could make him forget about all those he had turned his back on. My friend, I am afraid we have become that same person. And we are pathetic not because we loved too much but because we couldn’t love anyone, not even ourselves.
There are ruins of hearts hiding
in the secluded places
that refuse to vanish into
this decaying world.
Stagnancy is not an accurate word
the beauty of these corners,
where the caresses of sunlight
and wind are trapped forever.
There are places
that hold the touch of the ones
the world has lost.
Though I am yet
to fully realize
the depth and sorrow of
But here it doesn’t matter.
Here the summer and the winter are same.
Here the cry trapped in my veins
can sings along with voices from far way time.
Here my silence
can be music.
Here I can sit and hope
for our love to last forevers.
And know that there are certain love
that can never cease to exist,
but only forgotten.
The stars that crumbled
at the wind of your wish,
have their light taken say for your sake.
In their dying light they take your name.
Even if the wish comes to life
it is heavy with a sadness, a grief.
For they are just dying breath
with promises to keep.
If I memorized
all the tones that drifted in from
a world of happiness
we are no longer inhabitants of,
the tones that drip ever so slowly
filling our heart with love
and filling our life with pain,
the tone that ripples through
every word I weigh on my tongue.
all the tones
that resonates in me as the wind passes
through the places in my heart
where your laughter once lived,
all the tones
that separate bird cry and bird song.
I think I would find the song we lost,
the song we sought
that we could never hear
in the noise of our shouts.
And though our love is dead
I would like this song
to have a home to rest.
As for our love,
what is lost is probably
lost for best.
The wind chimes on television
seem so beautiful,
sound so soothing.
But I had a wind chime
that never made a sound.
There was never a wind around my house
at least not the one that pleased my wind chimes.
The occasional wind will touch my cheeks
but never the edges of the shining metal.
It never made the song that I longed for.
It made me feel
that my life was more stagnant
than it really was.
The only time it made a sound
was when my hands played with it.
But it was tiring
and it never quite sounded the same.
It never sounded like
the wind chimes on television.