a vague classification of you.

you’re the kind of love that
taints hearts and breaks bones.

the kind that echoes uncertainty,
and mourns poetry-
concurrently.

the kind that is conceived
in a breath,
and decays in the next.

the kind that leaves your body
like a bullet,
and scars your skin like a serrated knife-
the kind you start forgetting
before it’s gone,
but live with long after your chest
has succumbed to gravity.

••ari purkayastha


Last post as an 18 year old.

for her, who left.

i call for your sparrows at midnight-

they cry on my lips like forgotten lovers
i couldn’t bring myself
to weep for,
while i held their bones in my hands
like your heartbeat-
structured into a delicate masquerade
of permanence.

there is mourning in your name,
and agony in it’s echo-
as your speech stutters in a static
cold desperation that
parts us without any possibility
of a choice.

you can’t hear much anymore,
almost as if the sounds have dulled
in the space between my breaths
and your mind-

and neither can they.

it’s easier to sing
if no one can hear you beg the sky
for words you wish would
dig themselves out of your throat.

we are a dead statistic in a graveyard
crowded with grief-
i could only muster a vague sense of
sobriety to fill my lungs,
before your loss rips the horizon
from my chest
in a cascade of hastily receding widows.

••ari purkayastha

our names, and without them.

you’ve called me every name
but a lover-

almost as if i haven’t been cradling
your lungs in my arms,
breathing my breath into them
like a mother singing farewells
to her newborn-
screamless in death.

almost as if you are unremembered
by my tongue-
you act like i’ve wounded you
with silence,
as if i have cut out your ribs
with my nails, and
wordlessly swallowed their grief
for a heart.

there is no heart.

there are rhythmic knocks on your chest
from a past self
losing himself in the struggle
to be heard.

you’ve called me every name-
but yours.

••ari purkayastha

beginning the equation of betrayal.

i hold the sky like a jilted lover
i’ve been seeing behind your back,
in stolen gasps,
that you fail to comprehend today.

it never looks at me any more than you do-
almost as if it’s too hard
to keep pretending to care when you don’t;

almost as if it’s too easy
to let go of the quiet silences that
slipped between the lines of our palms,
when march came rolling in like a martyr
to our february mistakes.

there were a lot of those-
regrets we carefully disguised under
the careless slurring of
alcoholic lies.

we still haven’t begun counting-
you and i.
we still can’t bring ourselves to just
begin.

••ari purkayastha

vices, and how their voices echo between us.

wp-1489064572806.jpgi have been passive smoking your grief for what seems like years now- what could have easily been months or weeks or mere days, but time walks slowly when you’re mourning the death of someone who was never awake, enough to know the effort it took to raise your lungs against gravity.

we’re falling down- wingless, and without care of how much it might hurt when the earth fucks redemption into our bones. we’re falling down like static electrons- restless and unwanted- experimental, in ways that churn the guts of men hungover half a shot of misery with a few drops of tequila.

love has always churned my gut, but longing- longing rips the skin off my muscles, and sews them into the tiny shards of bones skewered through my heart, making a facade of a spiderweb that has always spelled your name.

something beats inside my chest today, something like a breathing nightmare, a broken song, and a muted promise. something that crawls in the space between your diaphragm and my ribs. something liquid enough to slip through the valves of my heart, and solid enough to rivet me to yours.

i want to leave it beside you, under the sheets-

decaying.

dying.

••ari purkayastha

because we were undeserving of the colors.

we’re going gray, you and i-
the colors leeching from our hearts in rotten shades of blue, that stumbles and chokes on a word that still has no place hanging pierced from your tongue.

we’ve lost something stronger than just the high that comes with being heartbroken, we’ve lost that moment- that moment when everything stood infinitely clearer like we were both looking at it with a 20-20 vision, while the rest of the world had been conveniently photoshopped to become blurred.

i can’t remember, if your eyes were ever a darker shade of black than mine- a shade trapped between three different layers of the sky that had been too fissured to ever hold its name; a shade where the galaxy broke it’s right hand beating twin stars into submission; a shade where thirty different sort of reds spread their legs for the nostalgia that came with being passionate; a shade where green was just a distant memory of an oasis in the middle of an inhabitable planet.

i can’t remember why we were ever colored.

••ari purkayastha

of evenings when it becomes harder to hold on to faith.

handthis evening has turned raw and restless like the lungs of a bird who was dreading the feel of the ground on its ribs, as the sky finally crumbled under the gravity of a thousand lovers trying to pluck stars.

on evenings like this- when the rain pretends to mumble, you raise your knuckles and knock on the wind as if someone would finally tell you that someone was there, and that you did not just talk senselessly to the church candles, while they flickered impatiently.

there is a voice, and we are just too negligent to hear it- too sensible to call it god, and too ignorant to call it a ghost.

••ari purkayastha

why horizons are synonymous with heart-break.

it matters until it doesn’t, and until long after i’ve lost you to the space where the sea and the sky meet- but let’s not call it the horizon just yet.

it’s not a hypothetical place, but the solid air at your eye level some couple feet in front of you (or behind depending on how you are prepared to stand)- and horizons are still an abstract distance some thousands miles from you- something that keeps moving away, no matter what direction you walk in (unless of course, you are walking parallel and slowly losing eyesight and footsteps, trying to keep a track of the sidelines beyond which the waters turn thirsty.)

all you need do is learn-

the manners and mannerisms of a broken heart, because it’s only hypothetical until it crosses the two feet distance and lurches into your chest- carelessly like a discarded note saying “i can’t do it anymore”.

there’s a lot of things i can’t do anymore. reading a conjectural epiphany aloud from my palms are one of those.

••ari purkayastha

merely because of nostalgia.

because there was something
quite nostalgic about a city
that cried itself to sleep
at an hour when the rose
withered- aged two decades and a year
in the time it took
drunken mistakes to tear
into the condom foils-
and when beauties woke up to
frogs- their pockets filled with gold
and empty hopes,
as a payment for their time-
because what was a greater irony
than a city losing seconds to the clock
while every other man,
with a few shillings in his pocket could buy
hours from a princess
with an even lesser self esteem.

because there was something
quite nostalgic about a city
that forgets to mourn that girl,
that single girl, no one remembers
but an old castaway couple-
where one romanticized cancer,
and the other fornicated with pensions
and debts in her marriage bed-
as they reminisced a daughter of sixteen
from sixty years ago
put to sleep in six seconds, by a driver
weaving spindles with his wheels-
wondering if the pain was prickly like a needle
or simply unfathomable.

because there was something
quite nostalgic about a city
where wishes came true by
rubbing the lamp- and every other homeless
kid begged for buds and snow girls
and crystal babes to marry to-
and where skyscrapers stood
proud and wide, like the men residing within-
strong like a shell, with vacant flesh,
and hollow nerves.

because there was something
quite nostalgic about the city
i looked at, at 3 am, from twelve floors high
as a sickening silence finally dawned
and the city passed out,
after having each bone broken
by the hungry street lights..

••ari purkayastha

haunted lips.

i buried you at the horizon of breaths-
marking your grave each day
by the setting of
the sun,
where you remained a silent note,
awaiting your cue to rise
to a crescendo,
when i fell asleep to the
begging of a dawn.

and evenings again,
i tire of praying to some
faraway deity to stop
the coins in my pocket from rolling out
as i run from your letters
hanging within the stars.

it’s just a prayer though,
of an atheist- a non believer
of god and fate and love-
because each day they go
unheard, like the day before,
while i was compelled to
live through your footsteps
climbing their stairs to my sanity
-lingering in a house
abandoned by our being-
and haunting me with stranger eyes
etched on my lips.

 

••ari purkayastha