let me be...

If I may, That one instant when you wake up with a start a few hours past midnight, Let me be that tale shining through the crevices of your fingers. That one instant when moonlight filters through your eyes into yet another bright orb of your dreams. Just so that you know, I sleep less on my sides than more on my face these days.

Just so that you know, 
I'm greedy to dive headfirst into your head.

secrets of the universe

.We shall be, two stargazing narratives around a cackling fire..you and me, two independent galaxies maybe 

Of heavenly failures, and fears. 

A falling star shall trickle down your shoulder and winter nightsky shall breathe into my hair. 
Maybe, 

You and me. 
Two placid moons rambling about the silent skies

farewell

The metaphorical omnipresent ink blots on your office stationery, pale blue undertones in the placid, balanced silence, for you I'd be some of such firm unshakable facts. Be it your favorite Beatles song, playing inside your head in the same nonsensical loop, or your rugged laziness--which as a matter of fact is laziness all the same- or perhaps, pointless knowledge hoarded through the time, EVERYTHING invisible and yet there, can be me. I don't deny my absence anymore nor do I proclaim the the distance out loud. Fact of the matter is, be it those anonymous thumbprints on your glasses or the tiny missing button on one of your cuffs, proclaim my person. with a plethora of many such souvenirs there lies an unmistakable evidence that I, somewhere in the warm, cottonwool covered alcoves of your mind exist. That it is not just you but a little bit of me (an the uninhibited cliche) that I bid farewell at the airport tonight..

a process of means..

Forget. 
For one tiny fraction of a second forget your existance and take a form of something that is just a part of you. Be a silent, dependent appendage, a silent helpless witness of you on the better part of the great divide. 
A silent witness of you watching you grow.
Yes, even when you think you're not in the habit of growing anymore.

Observe.
Notice how carefully you exit one belief after the other. 
Like pods in concentric chrysalises. Breaking through one after the other.
Yes, right there, what you are now was never what you acquired on your own, rather it just shed a skin of its own.

So you can see, that the hatred was there for quite sometime. Quite sometime before it shed the veneer of faith. 
And surrender does lie there, patiently waiting for its own turn. 

Now stop.
Open your eyes, start existing again. 
Run your fingers through the tiny person shaped depression you've left on your bed.

Observe.
Like they say, the devil is the details. 
If you look closely you can find the bits and pieces of an older you lying somewhere.
You can almost sniff out the balance that you nurtured not long ago.
The balance that you just perspired.
The balance giving way to something ominous altogether.

You carry yourself as the biggest souvenir of the past.
Like, you know, vintage idiosyncrasies and collector's edition fugue. 

Breathe.
See the tiny involuntary movements of life.
Like a tiny alive, moving, living creature within yourself.
Like you within layers of you.

Close your eyes.
Stop existing for a moment there.
Now think of you as worthless dependent appendage of yourself.
Think of you as something you shall lose someday.
Just like that.

somewhere in my incapacities

For some reason, sleep betrays my eyes the moment I crave for your dreams.

The aching chafed soul drowning in the sheer wretchedness of loss, like the first sudden epiphany about the legends of fairy folk or geriatric bearded man making wishes come true.

The way you strike rock bottom only to realize seconds later that some more quagmires are yet to be braved; it continues to be a string of endless disappointments.

I fail miserably at all attempts to create poetry out of translucent longings.
I write,  erase only to re-write some more,
and hence emerges a shadow-play of all the wishes unfulfilled and left floating in the air, against the bright flames of our dried hushed voices, covered behind a veneer of raw desire.

I aspire to be as blatant as your advances and demure as all my attempts to escape.
My sighs offer a voice-over, amidst the dull percussions of life pulsing through our necks.

I aspire to write out my careless exhausted insanity that refuses to slip into submission, the way you often evade my imagination in the commute of voices following us.

The way you find ways to trick the elements around me
 as more often than not we unravel earth beneath a veil of fire and water trickling through the pockets of wind.

We’ve woven stories out of unsaid desires before haven’t we anyway?
Like that time you fell off a poetry only to fall quietly in my arms or the times when by breaths silently took your form.

Like your common aliases, silence and the quiet,
I crave for you again in this un-scripted un-rhymed poetry of mine.
Try not to fail me, if you please.

As for me, I shall be just sitting here gazing at the meandering thoughts of you sorting through my memories instead.
As you grope around for words which quietly replace the pictures in your head.  Pictures, cunning, capricious and fickle, threatening to flit past at the speed of one breaths too many, or heartbeat skipped through.
I shall see you wandering amidst fragmented clouds in rich sepia sky looking for that prayer thought out aloud.
 Torschlusspanik- a fear of time running out, of running out of opportunities, of moments unlived, I shall see you panic and maybe that might set me free.

For the time being, let’s assume me absent, un-aware, imaginary, like the characters of an unfinished fiction spread out in the sleepy Sunday sun soaked yard.
let you  be scared of me slipping away, as I watch.

 For now let me just go by my selfish intentions and let you jot down the dreams that haunt you always with my presence, let me breath in your sighs, and trickle down the back of your neck.

I shall be there, at the sheer horizon of my absence.

ramblings untitled

They say the best of works stem from melancholy.
That when you seem not to mind reaching anywhere you carve the best of roads in your way.
She, to the world is just a tiny figure carved in silence. She apparently curls comfortably somewhere within her perfect personal space.
She is being  just a tiny figment of an old lore, by the sunlight filtering through soft curls.
To the world she is just that.
She sees enormous waves crashing against steep cliffs. Labyrinthine blues and mountain music wrapped in benign white linen.
A bundle of contradictions wrapped up in floral scarves, that when the veneer of plainness thins down, out explodes a billowing smoke in rich mauve, crimson in blue.
Colors of the utopian dream, in her own personal choices.
Momentary  lapses of reasons that visit the quarters in hours hidden from the world, that no-one sees nor defines ever.
It’s a kaleidoscope of words,  a chiaroscuro of whispers played by the tiny hollow beneath the ears where dreams usually trickle down to nothingness,  an estuary where lullabies and nightmares flow as one.
In a body betrayed by desire, there stand some virgin fires never having seen the light of the day.
There stand some silent sentinels of love unstirred, unshaken of pure aboriginal innocence.
There stand I somewhere between her eyes and a blurry dream forming miles away.
In the tiny fingers entwined in honest  untangled lost.
In silent promises made to herself, wilting beneath the pillow, some unfortunate personal biases squirming , pulsing within the delicate ankles and wrists.
There stand I always helping her stay afloat.