A Dark Rendezvous (A Poem)

There are times when I see the world
Through a pair of lens
Resting on my nose
With an anti-glare coat meshed somewhere inside them.

There are times when I see the world and feel
How? How to say this is so not me?
I blink, blink and blink.
I squeeze my eyes,
Clean the lenses and realize
That the frame is same
That this is all nothing but a game,
Where I don't know who I am because each day I get to know something new about myself.

For whole poem, click here

That Guy In Blue

The first time she saw him, it was that blue and those slender eyes, that caught her glimpse and she could just wave a 'hi'. There was some vigor in that distance that kept them apart and some ardour holding that distance.
How can one person hold something so intense, she'd thought.
Lost in her own experiences, this is it, she thought again, smiling; he will become a treasured memory, treasured like those constellations in the sky, which continuously reminds the sky about their presence. A treasure that only a heart can hold. He was someone, she'd not want to lose.

"I am glad that you exist." She murmured. Never had she known how much relief it can be for someone to just exist. Relief of having known someone like him. 

Wrapped around each other, smiling in the dim light coming through the window, piercing the curtain that is how his eyes had pierced hers, with shine in them. He was all the particles that the light contains, illuminating her, adorning her darkness with smiles, giggles and light.

But that was not the end, that was just a beginning. People leave, leaving you in the purgatory - flooded the realization. Still, the frame enraged her demons while also soothed her soul.
Even if he leaves the memory would stay, the relief will linger, relief of knowing that guy in blue would not haunt her, but make her beam. The fierce vibration, that strong heat will always calm her down. The beating heart and the sound of it, would resonate in her veins.
Because all she had seen for the first time was that blue and those slender eyes. 

ATTACHMENTS (what it is to me)

She often asked me questions out of nowhere and then she would expect me an answer. I know the starting is abrupt. But that is how it has always been. Once she asked me about beauty? Like come on? How can you ask a fugly person to write about "beauty"? Still I managed to write something on it.
AND NOW! Today she asked me to write on "ATTACHMENTS". I don't know what attachment is again. I got to think a lot. I am thinking while I am writing this. What fascinated you about today? I saw a silver lining yesterday.

YES! I am there. Near to what I conceive of 'attachments'.
So here is what 'attachment' is to me:

The door hanging on the hinges, sometimes close to each other, sometimes centimeters apart.
That end point on a beach where the water and the sky appears to meet.
The laces in my silver shoes (yes, I like silver shoes!) tied when "I" do that and separated when "I" choose that.

Let me sort this out.
Attachments, never made sense to me. It's like people speaking forged meaningless sugary words, metaphorically asking the other person to get attached and then waking up SOME FINE DAY and saying "hey, don't get attached. It is the worst thing that can happen, you know! And let us part our ways". And what the person is then left with is - "what was I doing for so long? Riding a duck?"
YES! that is what has happened with me like always. I got attached and the person told me that you were riding a duck and the duck is now dead. Dig a grave for all your emotions and all the good you have in you.
BUT
Attachment is like that door and hinge relationship. Sometimes you are close due to the presence of it and sometimes you are not, due to the presence of it, because that is when you want a person to be there, JUST BE THERE. And the attachment is in a way, that you don't want to get close, because that is where you find the real game being played.
It is that end point. Always there yet absent. Every time you get hurt, every time you get a little detached from the anticipated attachments.
It is my shoe laces with me being a binary. Tied with something firm, knotted with love, having firmness. Separate because my foot needs air, laces suffocate it. PLUS! misunderstanding, how can they be at bay? Misunderstanding is that neighbor who EVERY YEAR asks you about "what you EXACTLY do?"
"Aunty, Literature."
"Nice. Stick to it."
365 days gone, and AMNESIA.
"What are you EXACTLY doing?"
"Aunty, riding a unicorn."

But I am a liar, I am lying. Attachment is so much more than this.
It is so beautiful when it is reciprocated. Yes, attachment demands reciprocation too. Imagine being attached with someone who is equally attached with you?
It gives you hope, it breeds faith, love, trust and happiness, There is so much care when two souls are attached. It is really that hinge, holding you tight, telling you not to let go, tying you, giving you firmness. It IS that end point, where everything is magical and beautiful. It is the shoe laces playing with each other even when left apart, trying to reach out to the other.
ATTACHMENTS, here it is. 

A Memory of You (Poem)

I still carry the book you spilled your coffee on, And then apologized with all the uncertainties in your eyes. I wanted to tell you that I didn't need that combination of syllables, All I needed was, 'I will give you my favorite book. And you can spoil that.' I remember the time, The time, When you held my hand and said you won't let go, but still you did, As if you never meant it. I wanted to tell you that I didn't want your 'I won't let go'. All I wanted was you to mean it. Hardly did you know how I would have treasured that love, That memory, That scar of the kiss on my lips, And that passion in your eyes when they rested on mine, And the smile on your lips when they found my ears and you bit them slowly, whispering, I won't let go. And yet you left me, leaving me in agony, Lost in your soul, Kissing the stale coffee on the pages, 
The pages you once spilled your coffee on.

I Killed My Cupid (Poem)

They flew among the clouds, Foamy and soft, Naked as they were, Hurrying and lost. With a bow and arrow in their hands, They hunted souls around, But I am a sinner, I hunted my Cupid down, "No love was lost And no love found". I spanked their little buttocks, Pulled their cheeks, Brought them to tears, Transparent and clean. Took away their bow And their arrow, Watched them cry harder, Shaved their head bald, Cut their wings, And left them there, bearing my sin. Love is not happening. Love is nothing, I yelled at them. It is a slapstick fallacy, It is a space inside the space, Unfound and buried. I yelled. It disintegrates the heart, It kills the soul, Live with nothing that does not let you grow. I KILLED MY CUPID And buried the love he was shooting. Since love is an illusion, Useless and stupid.

All Is Never Lost

"Don't think too much." He whispered.
"Don't refrain yourself." He repeated. 

Months passed and the memories came hurrying towards her, ready to haunt her.

"Memories don't haunt. And you won't regret this one memory." He uttered. 
She knew it won't haunt, that she won't regret it, but she indeed was a skeptical; struggling all the doubts in her mind. 

Months had passed and his silhouette with a bag on his shoulder and a tired smile on his lips, came running towards her. That black shirt, that brown trousers and that silhouette, reflecting the textures of his clothes.
She missed him. She started missing him like the winter sky missing the warmth of the sun.
But all was lost.
Him and those racing heartbeats, that intense passion, that 'immortal' connection.
BUT ALL GOT LOST.
Those fragile emotions, unbreakable feelings and instilled passion.

"Don't think. Relax." He whispered. 

How could she not think? She was bound to do that. Forcing the memories into her occluded brain. How well she remembered each touch, each move and that undesired resistance.
BUT ALL WAS LOST.
The capacity to feel it all again. It was lost. She felt like a loser, surrendering herself to her blunt passions, trying to sharpen them up.
All that differed was that the memory was not as fixed as the previous one. Not as clear as before. It could never be.
Hours passed and partial amnesia surfaced her. All she could remember was the dull room, orange light, a white cupboard and the whispers.

"I want to feel the love. I want to fall in it. I want to fly in between. I want to take off again. I want to feel the love. How it is to be loved. How it is to love. I know not what love is. Crucify me with the arrows." Her heart whispered. 

But something was left. Something only she knew. Something she won't show.
All is never lost. 

A Metaphor

"I will tell you why." He started. "I will tell you why I still love her." 

His friend could do nothing but intently listen to what he had to say.

"I once asked her to describe people. What she felt about them. And for the first time she smiled and didn't answer. 

Nothing made me feel bad at that moment than my question being the reason of her silence. Thus I had let it go.

The next day we met, again! And while I greeted her with a ‘hi’, she answered me with the answer.

She categorized people by calling them - the words, the moon and the stars.

I couldn't help but ask what she meant out of the sheer confusion and ambiguity she had created.

And then she continued in a soft voice.

Words, for some people know everything and choose to flaunt themselves.
Moon, as a part of them is always hidden. They will know but they won't show.
Stars, because all they know is how to twinkle. Innocent to everything.

And that is exactly what I love about her. The metaphor. Because that is what she is. 

A metaphor, a simile. And there is not even a single metaphor like her. Unique in her own way. Weird. Clumsy and messed. She never talked straight and it was fun deciphering her."