You Made It Too Easy

Hello.

Old friend.

Should I say I’m sorry?
(Oh, but I’m not.)

You see, today was one of those days when the sun was relentless. I fanned myself a few times, but it helped me no more than that stupid broken fan that hangs from the ceiling.

I remember your red hair, plastered to your forehead as you complained about the heat exactly three hundred and sixty five days ago. Yet, you did nothing to fix what you broke, did you?

The air today was heavy with the positively delightful stench of sweat, and it was when I was searching for a cure for this suffocation, a respite, that the idea of, let’s say visiting you, entered my mind.

I’m sorry (again, I’m not) that I broke into your house. You see, I know exactly where you keep your spare key because it’s where I keep mine. It was far too easy to turn the key twice to the right, to let the door swing open, to take in the vision of your garish sunshine yellow washed walls. It was too familiar a sight.

I remember your midnight blue shirt, flecked with that hideous bright yellow. I wanted something less bright, more muted, but you picked the shade for my walls and we painted it one weekend, seven hundred and forty days ago. My walls are still the same, and now yours look like this too.

Your bedroom is no different. There is a window next to the bed, because you like to sleep facing the night sky. It’s why we bought my apartment in the first place, and these days, when I shut my window at night, I wonder if it’s because I can’t sleep facing the same sky as you do.

One two three
One two three

The same books. The same number. Isn’t that why we got along at first? We like the same books.
We like the same stories, so maybe, just maybe you’ll like this one.
The same fittings. The same number of drawers in the kitchen.
The same number of knives in the same wooden block.

It’s your bedroom again. Or should I say mine?
Your wardrobe. Your safe.
My wardrobe. My safe.
Familiar numbers dance on my fingertips. Of course I know your code. It’s the same as mine. It was far too easy to turn the dials, to swipe away all the bills you’ve neatly stacked, to think of it as alimony.
You made it too easy.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to clean you out, to take all your money.
But I need it. I have a fan to fix, dear ex-husband.

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Note to the reader: This story was written in response to this prompt. Do check it out and tell me if I’ve done justice to the prompt.

Doppelgänger Alert

Drug

Intoxicating

Are the tendrils
Of colours
That are slowly creeping
Into My Mind

Are the sights
That are making
Me shriek with laughter

Are the thoughts
That are making me sigh
With pleasure

No, it’s not madness
My darling, you are wrong.
It’s a drug.
Compelling, and
Almost consuming.

Imagination.

The Little Things

Isn’t it funny
How we fight
Over and over again
About nothing?
Don’t you see
How empty this is?
Inconsequential little things.
Did you forget to close the door?
Or perhaps put down the toilet seat?
Maybe you left the milk out again?
Don’t you see
How our fights
Are slowly
Turning into battles?
And someday when you lay the table for two
But eat from a plate for one,
Or when you have enough milk for me and you
But only a glass to pour,
Or when your king sized bed
Finally seems too big.
Will you laugh then?
At how we breathed
Consequence into things
Of Inconsequence

The Meeting

Far away from here
In a distant land
Away from the sea
There is a shore

With breeze so salty
You can taste it on your teeth
And on your tongue and lips

With salmon sunsets
Alabaster moonlight
Dipping into the orange horizon

Here, on this shore
We can stand as equals
Unbridled by our
Lack of sorrow and pain
Non-existent problems
And thoughts of loss and gain

Your flyaway hair
Golden and free
Your bright sapphire eyes
More wondrous than the sea
Wash over me
Wash over me…

You are the waves
Powerful and wild
And I, Oh I so badly
Want to play with you
Alas! I am scared of the ocean
I never did learn how to swim

So I’ll stand on my shore, this distant land
With my feet firmly planted in the sand
Golden kernels caging my toes
I’ll wait for you to hit the shore

Far away from here
In a distant land
Away from the sea
There is a shore.

And on that shore, you and I
Water and sand
Will meet.

And you, my darling
Will wash over me

Cactus

Lovers
Can’t touch
Without hurting
Each other
Can’t speak
Without choking
On Dust
Can’t cry
Tears have run dry
Still, mirage is enough.
To keep them alive.
What they call love
You call sadness.
The life of a cactus.

Burn

You will never know
How long
I sat there,
With my fingers
Stretched out
Waiting for the skin
Between them
To burn
With the memories
Of your
Touch.

Paradox

Note: Open to your interpretation. My mind is rather twisted, obviously. Still, I mean this in the most positive of ways. It may not seem like it, but honestly. Always hope for the water.

I feel my feet sink lower into the sand, as the storm blows in circles all around me. Clocks turn, people fly by- their faces blurred, scarves pulled upto their eyes.  Days turn into nights turn into days.  All around me, the sands swirl in the gusty wind, as I stand there, with my vision impaired and my senses dulled. Thick, dark hair billowing around the contours of my face. Feet sinking lower and lower into these deceptive swathes of gold. Animated and suspended, rushed and stilled, all at the same time.

If I could, I’d bottle up all these grains and fill  an hourglass with hours and minutes. If  only I could. Maybe then I’d be in control of time.
Slow things down. Observe and act. But for now, I’ll sigh as the sand slips through my fingers, and  I’ll play with the cards I’ve been dealt.

What a whirl this is. Even so, never moving, never changing. Perhaps I should keep up, I think.  Perhaps, I should move with the sand, with time, with the sands of time. Maybe I should just grip the fingers of both my hands around one thigh and pull it out of the thickness, place it a tiny step forward and then do the same with the other leg.  Repeat, repeat, repeat. Move. Just move, dammit. Move forward.

Activity is all around me. Inactivity is in (the) body. Time for a quick fix? I hope, and don’t hope at the same time. Shrink and swell with the wind, and the sand. Embrace this. (Or not.) Move forward, (or stand in comfort), waiting for the sand to blanket itself around me. Burial. Obfuscation. Soil will layer itself above your rotting flesh. Nature is so…  efficient.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to weep over death for more than eternity. Especially when you know that carbon dioxide you breath out can, and will sustain another living thing.

This too shall pass. Life always does… pass. Again, step out and move forward. Or stay. Choices, changes. Comfort (?).

Choices, changes, comfort. Step out. Now.

All around me the sands move and my coat tails dance in the wind. It’s too hot for a coat, but it serves its purpose, cloaking everything on the inside.  People move forward and backward, rushing with their scarves still clinging to their faces.

Do something, hisses my mind.
And so, I do.  Digits around left flank. And then right.
Left, right, left. Like militia, but with emotion.
Faster, till this storm is behind me.

Maybe there is, beyond all of this, a blue stream, brimming with sweet, frigid water. Gurgling and bubbling. Meandering through rocks.
No more sand and storms and heat and winds after this.
I don’t know.
But I can, and will move because that stream just might be there.

Or perhaps there’s a cliff.
Maybe I’ll fall off the edge.
Maybe I’ll grow wings.
Maybe there isn’t a cliff at all.

Uncertainty is the flavour of the month.
I hear they’re handing it out on street corners, and it’s selling out like hot cakes.

And in the meantime, Life laughs sadistically in the background. The air is tinged with irony- best served with(out) hope.

Move forward, or stand in comfort. Step out. Or stay. Choices, changes. Comfort (?).
The irony is that change is the only constant of life.

Always hope for the stream though, and if it’s the cliff, jump. Never stagnate. Maybe the fall will be light, and you’ll find yourself swimming in waist-deep azure water.

You never know what all of this leads to in the end.

fleshwounds.

When we fall in love,
I want to feel it
In the core of my being
Let it not float
On my lips
Just my lips
Like some hollow declaration
Of some plastic future

Let it echo through my insides
Bang against my bones
Tear out in short gasps of breath
Bursts of fireworks
Yes yes yes
Snatches of intense, fervent emotion
Pouring out from every opening
Every gap
Plugging all our holes with
Perfervid sensation
One string
An invisible link
Between you and me

Let it wake me up
Like coffee
Hot, Bitter and Strong
Let it shake my insides
Make me laugh and
Perhaps cry
And bleed

Let us tumble
Dive headfirst
Into a rush of butterflies
Tying stomachs into knots
Let it be everything
Potent, Over-powering and raw
Who wants a fairy tale?

Let it hit us like a ton of iron bricks
Rattle our rib cages
Break a few bones
And some hearts, maybe?

Let it be pure
And happy
Just happy
Dancing-On-Air happy

Let our knees wobble with weakness
A heady rush of blood to the head
With each beat of the heart

Let it shatter our insides
Peel our skins
Cause flesh to rot
Splinter our bones
Mark us with hidden, indelible ink
Till all we have left are our bare souls

This love we feel
Should not
Will not leave us with mere fleshwounds, darling

Second Hand

Two years later, I run into you. And as expected, you bring to my mind a rush of memories, forcing me to question why I ever left you.

Trapped in this world, you were always my reality, I think.
Fiction. Crime. Drama. Romance.

An unexpected meeting in a ‘Second-Hand  Bookstore’. I’d hardly call you used, my love.

 

You

Courtesy- Google images

What if I told you
That the mere mention of your name

Breathes colour into my monochromatic world,
Pours soul into the voids that
Reside in my core,
Enchants me with the musical, hypnotic
Rhythm of steady rain,
And rustles the leaves
Of my tender heart,

Does that make me crazy?