When you love , you don't just love their picture-perfect smile and their eyes attired in jubilation that you get at seeing the shores after years of floating aimlessly , you also love their flaws. Their flaws become the new universal definition of flawless . When you love ,you love the way the sky loves its blues . You love the way the raindrops love the parched ground . You love the way autumn loves the fallen fugitive leaves . You love the way a maiden loves her transient youth. You love the way midnights love overthinking. You love the way your teardrops love the curve of your cheeks . You love the way an eye loves an image. You become a songwriter. You become a poet. You become a painter. All in love.
Love can't be concealed. . It's visible in the quest of this one person burning in your eyes as you enter the hallway . In the dismay on not finding them. Love is visible in the red of your cheeks , not the cliched red of roses ,but the red on ripening lychees in your backyard . It's visible in the clothes you chose to wear just for them . In your sudden fetish for romantic stories on Instagram and those that you put just for them to see .
Love can be concealed? Try talking to them without fearing this is the last time the two of you get to talk . Try not to talk them -- you will be drowning in a pit of grief .
Love is audible . It can be heard in your freshly-softened voice while talking to them , in your newly-brewed politeness reserved only for them. In the nervousness in your voice. In your accelerating heartbeat while inching closer to them . In the way you call their name .
Love can be smelled in the aroma of the cake you specifically baked for them , and in the secretive perfume you spray on you just for them.
Love is audible and visible and can be smelled , and you try to repress it ?
I pray that you go out and about your life I pray that you live out the narrative you're born to savour I pray that you drink and smoke and party hard I pray that you wear that black shirt 'cause it really suits you I pray that you'll be soft but coarse -- the way I like you I pray that you eat your favourite dish every now and then I pray that you dress in your smile as enchanting as a spell But I just want you to know that even centuries from now on you'll find me here by the door huddled up in a blanket of your perfume between poems and songs between the words of the books we bought together beyond the eclipses of the stars hanging from " I still love you" like a precarious leaf living a hermit's life still deciding whether you were the villain or hero to my story
And one day may you come back burning like a wild fantasy to find me missing something anything everything today tomorrow everyday
winters are like an ally to those who are compelled to carry baggages of a millennium of ill fates along the country roads of this small town ; to vagabonds in whose faces every door there is has been slammed in. I'm "those". winter is over . but the lover in me isn't. stale relics of that cold still breathe in the tiny drops of rain in June . but I need real winter -- I need that mournful mist as the night dissolves into dawn. I wanna spend mornings sitting in my small Assamese verandah and relish a cup of red tea with just one scoop of sugar in it. looking back on a love that lingers in my mind the way my cold breaths do in the air. the fog too lingered in the window of my brother's car like a graffiti on the wall by the streets of LA . it's evasive like my euphoria .
I miss the dread of baths on Bihu in the freezing mornings of mid-january . I miss warm pithas prepared by ma in cold evenings . I miss the warmth of heavy Assamese blankets . I miss withered dahlias and wilted roses living without petals . And they say winters are cold but so am I .
rosy cheeks . Cozy fire . lazy mornings. jingles of bonfires and flicker in the bald and old cold .
take me back to my sweet sweaters and scarfs. take me back home . to my domain. to my one true love. take me back to winter .
Last week I picked up some pamphlets that smelled like scrunched promises off the sidewalk and handed them over to the witch on the corner . she said I was really sweet. sweet .me. no I'm an hourglass frozen in lonely dawns. brimming with bitterness. bitterness as in the rain. yes, rain is bitter. afterall rain is but a lover rebuffed by the cursed heavens . this bitterness lingers as petrichor in the mud stuck on my shoes. this petrichor is primordial like your aggrieved heart . mud that smells fresh like memories memories that strew your ambience like shadows of the drops of rain on the pavement. rain whose serenity is symphonic. a symphony that's unheard like the choir of your cries.
Silence is so perfect like daydreams. and this melody of thunder has no malady . rainy wind thrashing the windows is so silent . more silent than silence itself .
Robust rain . rave relations .rainy roads we walk -- lost vales of found hate . we talk -- rain and I we meet where soulful shadows meet the doleful hours . afterall hours are bodies of bitterness . like you. like me . like the rain .
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I remember I was a kid so young and naive that I used to grope for stars in a horde of fireflies . believed the moon followed me wherever I strayed . so naive I believed the shower in my bathroom was rain incognito under my command .
and I used to set flowers on the table of a war-ravaged house - flowers I reckoned were immune to withering and wilting. they gleamed like auras in the pride of perpetuity.
little did I know they were plastic flowers sitting stiff in immortality . and now that I steal flowers from my neighbor's yard in the quiet of the night , they wither and writhe the very next morning . for the first time I'm au fait with flowers being like humans--
humans with a sundered heart, sharp shards of a euphoria that we picked up with bleeding fingers. hoaxes of the lullabies about a witch wearing a tiara of marigolds and daisies that I dreaded until I became her. now regret is the rose I carry.
flowers wither like life . the truth is frozen like time .
At night my dreamless slumbers converge with the dialogues that were unsaid back then sitting in the secrecy of cavernous and unbidden opinions hurled at my nude body by someone anonymous -- Well, I have their names memorized but memorizing what I want to scratch off the wall of my room is just me Back then when people tickled my cheeks like the tail of a cat with spikes for hair. Like the girl who asked me to man-up cuz I was too feminine , as if femininity was a sin . If it really is , do wear it like a custom-made dress to enjoy your apocalyptic reign in hell Like the boy my age who told me no one my age respected me and succeeded in antagonizing me before everyone Like the traditionalist , i-dont-like-boys-mingling-with-girls principal who questioned my character and humiliated me for who I was , as if the mirrors didn't do it everyday Like the class that made heaven and hell bridgeable
And it's really crazy to think how 2 years back I still kept thinking about what my life could have been had I taken the road I so ardently avoided and how this time in the year I'm regretting the same .
I still remember last year around this time I was leaving my hometown to a city far bigger that tasted like hope of new beginnings , where I believed the edifices would dwarf my grief -- a city where clouds composed and hummed lullabies for its inhabitants to sleep , lullabies that had no hoaxes .
It was a queer ,sultry summer . It is a queer ,sultry summer and I'm returning home that I left last year like a scent flees for a place that deserves it , In the same car , driven by the same tan brown boy , beneath the same sky sitting in the secrecy of the same crestfallen evening . I'm returning to my hometown carrying the rotten vestiges of that hope , that gleamed brighter than the bona fide blood moon last year , in my pocket-- that hope is dead like my will now .
I'm returning to the town that I broke up with hundreds of times only to make up with again then broke up again , knowing we're like a flame and a candle : one can't survive without the other... Like the estranged lovers walking side by side, our stars not aligning .
Sometimes I feel like I'm north and everyone else is south , like this city that smells like me . But we don't repel. In lieu of repelling , we are stuck between repulsion and attraction .
As I'm approaching my hometown , these roads look like a love that I so much like to pretend I'm over but even this car knows I'm not . The winds whoosh past telling me stories about childhood as we reach it , my hometown.
I'm being driven to my hometown, the warmest cottage I've ever known where tiny sparks fly like confetti , where even sparks can set you afire or freeze you , where hell and heaven are conjoined twins.
// my 19th birthday// Last year today I was waiting for you to call me ,and you did late at night , but you did. And that's when I smiled for the first time on my born day. You know me , I don't have friends who would throw surprise birthday parties for me and also that I'm no imma-party-hard-and-forget-everything kid . I'm this hyper mutated mix of a sadness as prolonged as the summers and a euphoria like the blazing flowers that don't burn to turn into ashes, but to show they can blaze and still be pure like a deity . To show their innate ability to live transcends you and me . Small things make me happy -- like these flowers I'm talking about , doing my own chores without giving in to mental fatigue , endeavoring into the bleakness late at night like nature , writing poems about how I'm not happy and about how I'm intent on escaping this city, watching my grotesque face on a dewdrop perched on a leaf blade ... Small things like your smile or your voice on the phone .
It's quarter to 12 . You didn't wish me this year . You are probably out with your motorcycle , smoking on a remote bridge , lamenting your loss . Avoiding calls from your mother who's anxious about your well-being . But I'm not like you . I'm not this sad, stone-cold lover who would lament by resorting to cigarettes and cheap whiskey . You know it. When I'm sad ,I cry and I don't try not to cry . I write . I have an entire playlist of sad songs to cry to that is playing while writing this poem . I can pick sharp shards of my heart with bleeding fingers off the floor . It's an innate talent. I have been doing it for 8 years . But you can't. But you surely taught me lessons like everyone else . You taught me that memories are the greatest legacies to leave behind , memories last like ice immune to melting -- memories that either feed on you or keep you fed .
And today I have learnt another lesson -- that you're still my home but here I'm open to burglary , to being murdered , to being hurt , to being lost in a place I'm acquainted with . So I smile , smile for the cake I cut last night at midnight . I smile for having the courage to stare into the vague clouds and make up " Happy 19th birthday " on them. I smile for the new Taylor Swift album due this November . I smile for the rose between the pages of my favourite book. I smile and walk out and as I look back , I smile goodbyes at you for one last time and make you promise that this is the last goodbye .
This city that we inhabit , our sanctuary after we got buried , is verdant except for the shadows that act like a memoir of our footsteps leading to our school The light gleaming in the horizon is sort of a face of everything we could have built , and after everything we built broke , we summoned a tailor to refurbish it all . We were naive like children awaiting what-ifs by the door just to realize the hard way sometimes waiting never ends. At least in my case it didn't . But in your eyes was the fatigue of the perennial river and in mine the perseverance of the moon that never left like a lover .
Some how everything I do after a year , everywhere I go in this car that was once our abode only after this city , the zephyr stroking the strands of my hair feels reminiscent of the silence we shared and of how our symphonies synchronized like thoughts . So I named this grief born out of your absence after your smile , got my tears tattooed on my cheeks so I don't forget how I cried cuz , darling , I'm the unforgetting archetype -- I remember what you wore on your 17th birthday and how you smiled when I played you the song I wrote .
The sky kinda reads ," the beloved lover waiting at the station on someone is to wait for all of eternity" but I have never been the waiting type, you know -- I even hate waiting at doctor's chamber to get treated , or for the food to be served on the platter ; rather I take a spoon and scoop whatever is on the pan .
Darling, beneath your pillow is the ecstacy of the daylight and beneath mine is the rage of the trees that won't ever meet the stars and disappointment of a friend , a brother ,a son and a lover . And as the night falls like abandoned rain, this city suddenly feels so big cuz despite living here , we haven't met in a year , and I vow we'll never meet each other again .
Legend has it it's near impossible to find an ending when for all of enternity you've been infected with an incurable desease of not ending what you had, although you know all you had was nothing but a futile sense of being the tenant of your own house . It's written everywhere like Taylor Swift's lyrics and Sylvia Plath's poetry, Embossed like a hideous indelible signature on the blackboard with a chalk --- that you can't end this, that your tears will carry the scent of a love you bestowed upon him untill you're carried in a hearse to a watery graveyard or a cremation ground, that this sense of belonging to someone who could never belong to you is like a parenneil river rushing by
The legend is incredibly precise, Cuz you've been told as kid to hold on to things, no matter how inconsequential , So you started to cling to arms and then moments and then memories and then to nothingness .
But, darling, believe in the power of tears -- You've have howled the insurmountable grief of every unrequited lover there is into the hollow zephyr ; this zephyr has no idea what it's like to confide in someone that your heart is like a delicate artefact and then have them drop it as if it was something immune to breaking . your tears will wash over everything tides and swab it clear but what of the ending? The ending that i long like an infant longs breast milk. The ending of the longing for the "then" that looms over your head, a rambunctious child intent on taking everything he likes, but you own nothing but a longing for the home that broke like ceramics
Your longings posses you at midnight like a witch and Incinerate in a lingo of their own and you watch them flare brighter than your desires. But this time put the fire off with the teardrops that you hoarded like extravagant pearls. And this time you see that you don't see what ending is untill you see everything that begins is an ending, that everything that ends is a begining.
So don't write a poem tonight. Or a letter that will latter tatter. Put your angry pitchforks and sabres away and you'll see the key to an ending is realising there's a beginning everywhere.
Love, 2 years ago around this time you were before me . You were a divine rivulet . I watched you like a thirsty homeless woman but I couldn't touch you , Couldn't drink you , Couldn't feel the calmness etched in you like something so profane it feels pure , Couldn't bathe in you Because you were an expensive luxury I was too derelict to afford.
This year , tonight , at midnight , You're not here , unlike that April you were there sitting before my eyes like a chapter in a forbidden mystical book . So I resort to missing you in my dreamless slumbers, Picture you in numbers as if you're the cry of "1,2,3..." And lately I've fallen in love with illicit mediums , Like sniffing at these spectacles that may have gotten specks of you from you wearing them that August , Like texting you only to be left on seen It's like i have mastered that innate ability of murdering my self-esteem and taking pleasure while doing it .
Love, if making your portrait inside my mind were an art , I'd be the greatest artist history has ever known of , And for once I wish you walked into this museum of artistic paintings of you smoking beside me , Laughing like God beside me , Infecting everyone with your coquetry with me
And as i'm yet again writing you , Wordsworth is manifestating in me with his daffodils by the Windermere lake where all the poets went to die , And as you know , I'm no poet .
I only love ,love ,love and now even after all this time all I own is a heart coiled by a thread of black-and-white silence left by you .
As I walk through the door alone , I don't feel that profound void anymore And I have this feeling so peculiar that this pain Won't be for evermore
No hallucinations of you , no ghosts of you Only me and and no longer nights spent dreaming of having you hold my hand by the seas And my stitched heart that no longer aches Maybe I'm healing Maybe the cracks on the ground sucking me in are sealing You off Maybe the indelible imprints you drew on me like tattoos are getting effaced But I still miss you
And though I do , it's not the same anymore It's not lashing and whipping me now I take this vow And I have this feeling so peculiar that this pain won't be for evermore
So I walk through the door alone , Awash in an immense essence of you that exudes you like a light Not the sunlight Not the moonlight But a light that I saw gleam in your usual-mixed-with-unusual eyes How it told me," it's just a joke " And back then I Chose that joke over truth
I look out the window , to the people forging new huts out of the ruptures of their old ones -- They have absolutely no idea what it's like to miss someone who was never yours I do I could go on and on writing letters that I'll never send you But watching these people refurbish their homes seems way more fascinating
I'm levitating from you Off this city that can't tame my love Cuz my sky is vast and to leave it un-navigated would be a sin And it's blue Not the blue you painted my roof Blue like the untamed tides that shatter icebergs like ceramics And slowly but surely I'm mastering the art of self-love Guess this feeling that my pain won't be for evermore is true
So I walk through the door alone to a place Miles away from you and your contagious smile and your cancerous coquetry that ensnared me like an hare Where your scent dread to tread But I'm terrified of the prospect of never letting go of what we had And everytime I'm terrified , I'll plant irises in my garden that's already impregnated with millions of irises .
It's April . I aroused at 11 clad in a repentance as vast as my sadness , And locked myself in my room -- here, the winds reek of a stale desire of being an American poet , And of being a protagonist Or a loud raconteur Or a proud survivor after the landslide has ruptured my village But what after that? Should the curtains fall , I'll keep my eyes wide open like the mouth of an emaciated tiger .
I'm no poet. It needs diligence , precision and acceptance to be a poet , and acceptance is something I lost to the rain-sodden streets in New York that I'll never walk , One of the many things , of course
Here is the cemetery of my archaic self -- Someone I'm still trying to find in Doraemon's voice and shin Chan's coquetry but I end up finding myself in Hannah Baker's grief and Sylvia Plath's poetry.
I met a therapist last year . Many, to be honest . They reiterated and reaffirmed lies about how I'd be going on a date with myself in 3 months . It's been 11 months and I'm yet ensnared in this small town where my dreams don't fit like a chimera tired from lying in bed .
And not that I don't want to run away , it's just that I don't know if I can run away And what if this is my fate and it's too late for me to close the gate And beyond this gate are forbidden woods , So maybe I'm free here !
And outside is a cremation ground . Everything is on fire so I don't look out the window . Instead , I stay in my room painting ugly portraits .
Everything has to loom like conniving shadows. Everything has to bloom like brazen Meadows .
Here on the ceiling inscribed like a scarlet indelible tattoo is a word : happiness . What does it mean ? Is it an extravagant brand I can't afford ? A Cascade in the medieval period ? The last time I was truly happy was when I was with my cousins in a field with the scent of a rustic environment , moonless nights We floated like water through the fireflies They were moon's heirs Our chortle pervading the air like a chorus .
That summer breeze . That brazen ease. Everything's arbitrary . The fireflies are gone . So are my cousins to a city I can't place in on the map , Where city lights flutter like fire flies , where chaos meets peace
It seems I'll never be happy again ,the best I can do is not be sad . It seems I'll never laugh again , the best I can do is not cry . I'm screaming at the top of my lungs but It seems everyone has their earbuds on and they are listening to the kind of music i don't like . So the best I can do is talk to myself