Greatness

It is 46 minutes past 9, I’ve just woken up, and

The miniscule embrace of dry clothes on a clothesline, wild for gentle breeze

sweeps me with the 14th thought of “will I ever be able to make it big”

In the past 48 hours, and then I go brush my teeth.

 

Moments of self doubt probably wriggle up my sleeves

When I collect them a centimeter from my elbows

Before detangling all hushed out, dilemmatic, emotion

With double ply tissue paper and a blank word document,

And whisper sweet nothings in my ears in the few minutes I spend in

Only subtle existence – “You’re nothing, my darling, and nothing you will always be”.

I accept it for meditation.

 

Questions have choruses when they escape from amidst the polishing

Of Jupiter Red luxury cars, fluttering of the fancy paper of

Wedding cards with pastel aesthetic, and the jerk of a double breasted blazer

On a crisp white shirt, until I sing along but only in deranged melody,

And the opera plays in my head in concentric circles.

 

I read affinity displayed for me in little gestures, and it occurs to me that

When even time is a construct of human imagination,

What makes you think your love for me isn’t?

 

But then little thoughts make me laugh and in the bitter aches

Of lacked oxygen, I realize that there is no Big in the universe, just a splendid

Amount of Biggers, and sometimes,

Being just Big is big enough.

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Wilted

Uproot me every once in a while

and wash me of the ground that I carry between my toes.

De-thorn me of my thoughts thought out loud because they hurt,

and dethrone me in the process,

put me in a vase; watch me die.

 

Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, I expose you to my idiosyncrasies,

witness me curl my fingers as I rip apart every sweater,

with my hair becoming static from the constant stripping of all

warmth I ever gave to myself, until all I carry is faded pollen

thoughts that crumble onto the mahogany of your table

and then brush them into a dustpan and throw them into the

basement of your psyche, amidst haunting

temptations to love me (I’m dying, we all are).

Do not deceive me by watering me, we both know you’re

only drowning my corpse, and if you do, sink me during dawn

in your bathtub, with all my thorns – I wish to revel in your blood,

in your agony,

in the fact that something stings you after

I prove the concept of mortality.

 

Watch me wear the colour of dead roses on my lips;

beautiful flowers were never meant to live.

Unfelt

I was sitting on a bench in a closed classroom,

and you were asking me why I do not look people in the eye;

I tried to divert you from the topic because I didn’t

have the profoundly inky explanation you were hoping to hear,

I simply didn’t know, and I know you didn’t care for simplicity.

Before time knew it, you were telling me how you don’t feel, and I

was blind and deaf to the concept, and too many questions

were spinning inside of me like a continuum of blizzards

until certain sentences barely had words and some had

14 question marks, but by then you had already pushed me

against the wall and the vowels, and consonants, and punctuation

marks slowly balanced themselves on the top of my floating ribs

as if I were a snow globe.

 

The next evening, the second and last day of us,

you suggested we run barefoot on grass reeking of concoctions

churned by setting suns and birdsongs to soothe the 7 types of pain

I felt in my feet from walking in shoes

that weren’t meant for me. And we did, with you pointing

out 4 goalposts with your arm half exposed under a clumsily

rolled up shirt sleeve, with me looking for the lipstick stains

on your collar that had mysteriously disappeared, with us, two

strangers, spending an evening made of yellowed-out pages of

a Mills and Boon, until it was time for us to never talk again.

 

In every remembrance of our 48 hour rendezvous

I would ponder how one couldn’t feel until exactly

365 days after us

I began tearing into people’s souls through their eyelashes,

and dancing them into scratched vinyls of Presley,

 

with my heart only being an audience

of only an abandoned stage

with only a spotlight illuminating

only particles of dust.

 

Undiffered

I lost you years ago.

Then why do I find you every day?

Everything that we knew, together, has changed. Everything we touched, everything we saw, everything we learnt – it has all changed. The television we saw films on, and the films themselves, the walls that witnessed our fondest memories, the water in which we first learnt how to swim, and the swings in our garden, nothing is the same anymore. And yet, nothing is different either.

The huge, bulky television became a sleek screen, but it serves the same purpose.

The films almost look real now, but they’re just as magical.

The walls got painted over and over, but they are still walls.

The water does change from time to time, but the sound of splashes remains unvaried.

The swings did get evicted, but only to be replaced with better ones, more fun ones.

Nothing has changed, it has all only evolved, and love, these are the kind of differences that can be cast into similarities.

I know I haven’t known you in years, but I have known the concept of you all along, and the concepts – they never change.

You will always remain the sea green in a sea of blue and I will always remain the purple in all the shades of pink.

And that’s how I find you, every single day of every single week, for the past eight years, and I know that when you find me, it will all be different, it will all be the same, and it will all be better.