I was like the raven blazer skinned upon your arms, that made them curl THEIR noses & twist THEIR brows. They proclaimed that our creases were plated the wrong way, So I crawled deep inside your closet, hiding from their scrutinising gazes.
Maybe they're correct. Maybe I'm an afterthought. I but remember your blushed ears, matching the crimson of my filigree. The strawberry smudged over my corners, and your cocoa dipped fingerprints, brushed over my sleeve, now dried. Wasn't I, your best wardrobe malfunction?
You think I'm far, I'm but just a cabinet away. Hang my skin next to your tailored suit, and put my ironed smiles in your pocket. Watch over my silk threads entangled in the seam of your cufflinks. And mould that chiselled leftover ecstasy, of my cartilage into petals, pinning them up to the collar of your tuxedos.
Oh, I wish I could stretch myself when they accused you of growing out of me. I wish I could tailor those mundane patches to my frills, and erase my contours to suit you more, to suit them.
But I know how perfectly I embraced your shoulders & pectoral, how I lay between the drumming of your heart, And the wrinkles of your palm.
I know my lost buttons still lay in your back pocket, slumbering over serenades we once sang. I know you like black ties & painted nails, that you adore wrapping rainbows & rings. But don't you shred your skin for me, or them. Don't you cut & braid your fabric to befit their sizes. For you aren't some rented dress.
I wish you leap into your own golden sunshine. and never scramble your bones, like pieces of a lost puzzle, for I reckon how much you adore your imperfection.
So next time when you pull out your new prussian robe, and you find your fingers trembling with THEIR echoes, just trace its collar for a strand of my fleece, and dip your fingertips into that old scent. The old scent of our bones & hearts, that we vowed to fiddle with, till eternity. Well, aren't some eternities but a blink of an eye?
I know that you yearn to wear me over your heart, but some dresses are meant to stay back in the closet.
I slam my fist at the ticket counter and turn, you are on your knees, propping the yellow tulips between your fingers, squinting at me, smiling. My fist relaxes, my eyes dart around as the pinball machine striking hurdles - to your eyes, your fingers, your ripped jeans, the folded crease of your T-shirt above your belt, nearly vanishing as you straighten up. I blink, forming an o with my lips, kicking myself as I see the porcelain vase in your other hand. I remember my first smash at the basketball game, you smell like that euphoria. Those gifted brains say - Time slows down when the gravity increases. I happen to nudge the hourglass, all grains of sand levelled. The mirages must be so alluring, deflecting you away from the anguish of the appetite. You lay the tulips inside the tinted vase, like joining the two lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I kick myself for reckoning it all so late and shuffle my eyes awkwardly. You park the vase softly, like stroking the veins upon a lush green canvas, that all my distress escaped into oblivion. I am a Sylvia Plath person, but her poems were fogged today in the sheen corners of your chiselled face. I try to peek into the pages inside, but you blink and gaze away and I confess today, that I am a terrible reader. You ruffle your raven strands dipping to your shoulder bone, and I finally came to know, why they vacate their homes to surge upon those lethal tides. I blink trying to remember the last glimpse of myself at my mirror. I fix my rustic apparel. "Actually..."You thrust your hands into your pocket, kicking a pebble swiftly. "I eavesdropped that you wanted a front seat on the roller coaster ride." You blink looking around charmingly. Damn, you have a voice akin to winds announcing rains, a voice I could tape and play as the climax to my playlist of the Beetles and the Queens.
Do you ever find so much perfection in someone, that you yearn to trace their flaws, just to somehow idolize those too?
I rewind your words, I suddenly remember why I was so mad at the ticket counter. Yes, I am a thirsty cliff-hanger introvert, rebelling for the front seat on the ride. "We can swap our tickets if you want?" You ask raising your left brow, your lips curving on another side. There's a sudden flip in my stomach. 'Infatuation! 'the devil on my shoulder snorts polishing his horns. I shoo him off. Exchanging tickets- like exchanging books, like exchanging anecdotes and life. I pause my mind, and the introvert in me shook my head in denial, to him. I whack my brain for picturing us locking hands, bartering envelopes of infinite memories. You arch your face, startled at my unexpected refusal. Oh, so much I wish, to make you sit, listing to you and myself, the reasons- that how exchanging the ticket will hasten the clock, and this moment will be over. ( I know it is meant to.) We will part, flying in different troops, and I will turn my head to you, merging into the whiffs of fumes exhaled over the dying firewood. And how a mere ticket will take me to a stranger ruffling his hair.
But it's just a ticket, isn't it? and it's just me- just another stone etched in the pavement, oh but what if you stumble upon it and fall. And I am scared to lend you my trembling hand, what if you jerk it off on discerning the dents under the coils of my fingerprints.
I know how suffocating is to braid that infinite blanket of possibilities, wanting our suns to eclipse, even for a flash, and then for another, and another.
I know how tiring it is to stiff your neck, to the dark north sky and rehearse your wishes waiting for the brightest star to drop. You ask again, with the same cocktail of the Beetles and the Queens in your voice, and I deny as before, with the same absurd list of reasons in my mind. My infatuation fades, and I begin to scribble the closing to your handsome clause in my book. You chuckle at my denial, I cross my arms, perplexed. You turn and flash your ticket at the counter. "Hey, could you please exchange this for the chair next to him?" The pencil slips from the rifts of my fingers, the basketballs ricocheting my Adam's apple. You want me for a while, I am flipping glossaries to define this noun, and you shut them close, adoring the dents over my fingertips. So, I'm holding to my ignorance and oblivion of knitting and stargazing, this time. I'm a sucker for thrillers, after all.
Can you just want somebody for just a single ride, just for a while, just one game, just one life?
I have those urns of time, often sliding from the side of my belly. And I keep bracing 'em up. Down they slide and Up, I yank 'em again.
I have my knees squeezed to my chest, I'm waiting, alone, for the whirling vodka bottle to halt, losing the count of times its mouth hadn't pointed at me. A thankful fool.
I have waves of ink rippled on the stray leaves, and those 50 verses, graphited amidst those waves, and the diamonds laying low in that graphite, and the recollections flickering from those diamonds. To a friend. A very dear friend, perhaps.
I have my elbows perched upon the guardrails, and the night sky doesn't fiddle with our memories, nor the mist of the eve reads me our scrapbooks. It's when the moonlight clouds my existing blueprint, and the raindrops burdens upon so arduously, flooding me, that I breaststroke upwards to the sky, drowning myself, to the bedrocks at the same time, and for a flash, I hallucinate of you, you, leaning forth to me you, extending me your hand. I am a terrible mate.
Isn't there nothing you want to tell me...
(The dodgeball, the sweaty hands, empty refills and lost erasers, preserved pencil shavings, and ripped pockets choked on creased wrappers. And that compass I keepsake in my rucksack, And the perfect spirals from those pointed compasses.)
I have my fingers, playing an upside note, and we're toasting another glass, in a multiverse. I am anxious to confront you today without our memories patrolling me. And if we ever play the telephone roulette again, wouldn't we be running out of things we could say to ourselves? Astrophysicists are geniuses.
I have my feet soaked by the coast, and we are crouching on the nooks of a no man's land, (You might even possess a fishing rod) No one is at fault, no one is to condemn. I am but lathered in a bizarre grief of not parking my fingers in the intersections of that half-written book. I hate losing my bookmarks. (and you know that)
I have my breaths being spewed into balloons We had a bunch of helium balloons, do you reckon? Its strings now a part of my skin. I know you also have 'em tucked still somewhere in your tunic belt.
Isn't there nothing you want to tell me...
(The defrosting flowers, the melting smiles, the seventh summer and smudged tunics. The chalk dust on those smudged tunics, and the wind blowing that chalk dust apart. The whispers of change in that wind, and the urge to come back in those whispers. The urge to come back, Arrggghhh but the priorities! but the preferences, but the growing up, but the life- happening. The life, the new roads, and the fitted black dress, the crossed legs- sipping the red wine, and thumb-fighting with some new hands. New hands, trimmed and white, holding cameras, saving polaroids. New hands. Did I forget to drop in your inbox with my rusty fingers? )
I don't remember you so often. it's rare. it's rare as an eclipse. You whack me from nowhere amidst a pillow fight, ruffling feathers now slumber on the floor, we flocked, didn't we?
It's rare as an eclipse, I jump off from the hamster wheel and gawk, to the oblivion, I have puffed out. That scent of recalling in the oblivion and my mind intoxicated to that scent. Those reels playing in my mind, your flashing gums in those reels, your tossed up spectacles over those flashing gums, and your eyes morse coding behind those spectacles. My terror of failing to decipher your morse codes, Us, making memories over that terror. Us, living life, over that terror. us laughing (laughed)
I have slipped the earthenware on the ground. the gravels dispersing around from those broken urns, the speckles of our memories soaked into that gravel. That longing of reminiscence in those speckles, and those verses cooing in that longing... coveting to be heard, craving to be danced upon. can you hear 'em, old sport?
I am floating in a crimson froth, fenced by abandoned crucifixes, propping my elbow on the mounds of withered white roses, its rotten cologne scenting like them.
I am fiddling with my split fingers, the chords of the rusted lyre, (made with my skin and bones) cooing serenades of travesty and hymns of forgotten and deceased.
I smirk as the satan traces the word L-I-F-E over my bare spine, sucking my purpled scapula, reminiscing me of the stale tinted scars, on sleeves of my torn skin.
He tries to stroke my insides, reincarnating the cadaver of the old me, that lies in the cemetery of my heart. And I shoo him away, soothing myself into the temple of bones.
I drench my scarf with the scarlet of my lips, intoxicating on the metal of my dappled blood, feasting on it with my swollen taste buds. And I scream once again, on its taste, on how it trickled from my wounds...
I scream though none of my scabs is lent by them. Maybe I was too whole for their half hearts and swords, So I severed myself before they could glaze their fingers, with the light of my flickering halo.
The hell is empty, I have lured all the devils here, shackled them in my ribcage, Smothering them with the poison,they went fetching for me, becoming the hell, they dreamt of forging for me.
As my orbs scan your syllables, my mind halts its chores midway to speculate your verbiage. I feel your fingertips that once ran on this leaf, caressing my eyelids through time and space. We recite the same tongue yours but is, a smouldering fire. It chars, sometimes, and at other times, it illumes.
Some verses of yours stir the storm at the back of my head. My skull oscillates like a pendulum, up and down, resonating with your iambic pentameters. Sometimes I fall for the configuration of atoms in your poem, and caress your words to find the open end of the tape to unmask what lies beneath. With a hand lens, I scour the intimate dots of l-o-v-e and I stand on my heels, peeking for how you simmer such delicacies.
And maybe the mind does this gimmick, to spare the heart from getting anguished by your ink. To prevent it from falling into the chasms of the nostalgia of the unknown.
And sometimes my heart yanks free the grasp of my brain and comes sprinting towards your phrases, stilling at the vista of the grandeur of your letters.
It's like love at the first sight, and the pupils dilate abducting every cursive of your similes, gasping in your oxymorons, the spurt of that adrenaline inside appraising those alliterations, making me gape speechlessly, endlessly.
It bleeds and laments over the beauty and melancholy of the smidgens of your pen. and so the news dispels to the doors of my deeper insides.
My soul glues its ears to the walls to catch the rhapsody of your syllable or two. It's a brisk highjack of my remains, and my soul holds there defenceless until the ambrosia from your ink drips upon it, soaking it all, easing the perpetual handcuffs.
Your intriguing words rain daggers over my drenched self gashing it into fractions each sliver free-falling into voids of tangibility, finally brandishing to the thorns of your painted roses.
I love it how you don't have an iota of me, making out with your words... Of how my neurons blink in the fervour to recapitulate the hues of the sky from your eyes. Of how you bring my heart in the core of the battlefield, powerless shuddering surrendering sacrificing to your words to you.
That's what your poetry does to me... Forget the butterflies, your words make the niches of my gut turn auburn into frost in a blink of an eye.
Aren't your words but formless, disembodied souls befriending mine? Sometimes taking my hand, sometimes kneeling beside, sometimes sucking the air from me, sometimes blowing in life.
This post is also to thank all my wonderful readers and the ones who visited my account for once.Thankyou so much for your continuous support and 500 followers Hehe idk What I am writing,hope u got what I conveyed _____________________________ Words used; Aliferous:-having wings. Solivagant:-wandering alone. Antaraxia:-state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety. Aeipathy:-consuming passion. ****************************************** @mirakee,@writersnetwork,#pod,#daadigotyourback
I bought a Bedouin guitar, old and out of tune. It was cheap at first glance, but songs that come out are painful, difficult and she's cost me a lot, I can see now. Sometimes I don't know anymore if the tones are mine or Bedouin's, -my fingers on the strings and his notes coming from nowhere. Damn, he really screwed me over.
I bought a book from a rabbi, even though I didn't even want -and I'm afraid to open it and read. Some words, as if they were mine, and as if they were writing about you, so that I no longer know do i read it or write it. My blood is on the cover of the book, but my boat is lead by his rowet. Damn rabbi, he made me a poet.
The nomad sold me shoes, even though I didn't need them Then I realized that shoes only go my way. And so i wander, from city to city, under the open sky above, and I don't know anymore if I'm looking for something, or I just wander among the crop. Damn shoes, it will never stop.
I bought love from a thief, i didn't know it was stolen and belonged to someone else. I bonded quickly and naively, as if she were really mine. Sometimes she comes to me in a dream, uninvited, and walks barefoot into the room. Although I want to get her out, stays until morning and then disappears, while steals a piece of my heart, every time, and leave me in the faint, Damn thieves, they don't take complaint.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen, see you in another city...
Applause Curtain Darkness The end
Written by artistano1 Photo by Djinotan on SoundCloud
Words used; Vehemence:great forcefulness or intensity of feeling or expression. Eschewing:deliberately avoid using; abstain from. Sciamachy:fight between your own shadow. Lacuna:blank space. #pod#daadigotyourback@mirakee,@writersnetwork Hope you like it(☆▽☆) _____________________________
The fathom of her feelings was aeonian,the vehemence of her anguish masking her facade,she couldn't resist her bewildered mind anymore.What is there in life that I could cherish? She questioned her mind but it gave her no answer but only made her agony enhance.. She had the epiphany that only her soul can anodyne her.She craved to relish the ecstasy of a new life,she is exhausted of eschewing herself in the sciamachy ...
Her soul will not remain as a lacuna anymore,she wanted it to coruscate the darkness that consumed her...She brought life to her ceased soul through the words that came out of her spilled ink which was once the poetries embedded by her soul... ~Annmary ✧◝◜✧