4. I fell in love with you in a way
that even metaphors couldn’t help describe.
I wanted to write
ballads to our romance
to some occurrences
that could not possibly be rhymed.
perhaps write a cinquain about holding hands for the first time
a limerick about that first date
and a sonnet about the surreality of it all, the intervention of fate.
but I was so happy and happy people
don’t write poems, they say
so I sit here now
in present day
writing a poem about
poems and you
and about how we bid our goodbyes
in a haiku.
5. the dream from last night has my eyes draped, still. like a projector playing it on a white dangling sheet. it is so real. we are talking over the phone. talking about things
I’ve wanted to tell you. things I’ve assumed you’ve wanted to tell me.
my subconscious is yearning for a closure
that will probably never come.
maybe it’s best that way but
the mind is a mysterious thing. it makes me dream very real dreams. we talk for hours, you know?
you tell me you finally went to Japan. you’ve got a steady job, I don’t remember
if you’re dating. the mind remembers what it wants to, the bits and pieces that it
knows will not hurt. because we are always conscious about wounds. and I’m still scraping
the scab over the one you left. that deep, deep cut.
it itches sometimes like an alarm clock set to remind me to think of you.
like I’d need a reason.
we talk about why you disappeared
without a goodbye and in my dream you say, it was too hard.
you’ve been writing books that you never intend to publish. your aloofness is still
frustratingly endearing to me. your eyes come closer to mine which is funny
because in my dream, we are talking over the phone. but I’m seeing you.
the brackets of your smile. the tousled curly hair. you’re using your soft voice, one that you’d concocted just for me.
I wake up missing you. the wound is fresh again.
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/I look up at the sky a lot. it never ends and so it gives me hope. I look at the moon also but on nights that it isn’t visible, I get anxious. I cannot trust it completely, despite being so much in love. the stars, however, are out of question; the city lights make me nearsighted and the stars are so much farther away that they might as well not exist. tree branches are like a witch’s fingers that creep out to reach my window to scare me. and the giant shadows of otherwise inconsequential nothings turn my heartbeat into a boom box. I close my eyes to visualise scenarios but they are always interrupted by colourful blotches, like a glitch in the television box, like static. I toss and turn, I hug my pillow. I keep the kitchen light on so darkness cannot swallow me whole. and if you were to tiptoe into my bedroom to sleep on your side of the bed, I could see you. the shadow could be yours, familiar and calming. the hands reaching for me, warm and safe. the sky, the blanket we fall asleep under. and even the stars would appear out of nowhere, I’m sure, just to be watch us be. - - - 📸: @siddhi.bhanage
About the Author:
When I’m not busy being a goofball, I like to complicate my life for a living, so I can try and uncomplicate it with words.
I like to travel and make pictures. I’m also an actor, so I’m really all about the stories.
In poetic terms,
I’m the wormhole between reality and fiction
I’m the rhyme and the contradiction.