stay.

stay-

like you have stayed in all my anonymous letters, to anonymous strangers living in an anonymous world.

stay-

like the cracks on our bodies don’t bother you anymore than they bother me; like the regrets on my skin don’t fuck apathy into yours, when you get more intimate with luna than you are with me. like you haven’t been hiding my paintings under train tracks, because that is the closest you come to committing suicide, without ever feeling your bones break under the weight of people who move on faster than your wrists can lose it’s pulse.

stay-

like the sand isn’t silting over your eyelids, like it isn’t forming scars that would take ten million lifetimes- with lifelines that have been broken into ten different times, to form ten intricate types of breathing patterns that would still collapse into the same singularity- to even out with the rest of your skin.

stay-

like i haven’t been pressing prayers into your palms, when the planets momentarily loose their anatomy to the wild mourning of a widowed star, grieving the twin that has over-dosed on the distance that comes with being free from gravity. like a heart-attack is just another riot in your chest from bones being held in too tightly (you can only increase the density so much, before everything falls in or falls away).

stay-

like i haven’t been kissing every millimeter of your neck, just to feel your voice cords snap under my lips, because sometimes, it hurts more when you are prepared to talk, just to watch the the color in my pupils scatter, than when you remain silent to hear me scream out every reason that keeps me from whispering your name.

stay-

like the thought of leaving breaks your heart, more than it could ever break mine.

••ari purkayastha

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accepting grief, and its falsities.

i.

you have slowly come to terms with how the skywalk curves into your clavicle when the last songs on my i-pod loses its record into the unsynchronized stuttering of a crowd.

this day has become schizophrenic, and more paranoid than the country weeks during world war II; but you trace the back alleys of a dead city, where grief is dragged like a prostitute and sold into a brothel of hand-me-down memories.

ii.

there is a road crawling down the planes of your shoulder blades and curling into the ridges of your spine before valleying into your ribs. i have walked that road with half a lung full of cigarette ashes and a palm desperately pretending to read braille, as if scars tended to be the best poets, who wrote in a language the literate could never apprehend.

you still remain unexplained.

yesterday, i had spent three hours talking to gods who couldn’t seem to remember my name. maybe we spoke of you in hushed tongues, or maybe i just kept arguing with that part of my brain that is beginning to understand you more than my heart ever did.

iii.

there is a lie lying between your fingers and mine, when i reach for the sun as it goes down and you stretch for that fraction of sea that has never seen light. it’s the same lie the birds have taken to whisper and die trying to finish when the air thickens, and the next breath comes like a 4 am nightmare- you just can’t recall.

••ari purkayastha

letters for a certain nobody. #2

14th April, 2017.
3:42 pm.

i miss the way your heart used to fuck mine in the middle of a crowd, as everyone looked over at us, without ever seeing how fast they slammed against our ribcages, while we tried to cage our flailing valves and aching veins that were too tired to scream, and yet too obstinate to stop fighting.

it’s all too very still now.

my body has lost it’s rebellion, and my mind has lost it’s battle, as they both stand silently over the tomb where parts of you lived within me long ago. everything that moves today, does so in denial- because acceptance hurts.

you could sew bones back into their sockets, and joints back into their folds, but the tears at the creases where you folded my breast as a keepsake cannot be joined anymore than you can reset the calendars to sail back through those months that lost their very name in the avoidance of yours.

i’m like a water molecule at the surface of silent lake- you crashed into me with a single violent kiss, and then skipped away, without ever turning around to watch me drown-

i miss the way you stole the clarity of the graceless stars that bewailed the loss of their entangled twin, with each breath.

ari.

a love note to my halucinations. ii

i’d break a hundred stars in your name.

oh lover-

you who wears every shape of the moon in your eyes,
with the beginning of a sunrise
peeking from beneath your lashes;

you are the color hope
that has crumbled right along with
the weeping katsura leaves
hanging between the breasts of an autumn maiden-
an outward portrayal of her red heart
that is on the verge of rotting into
something far more beautiful
than the eerie silence of death.

you are the unpropitous plain mirror
at the corner of a crowded room
that occupies more volume than the living-
you take your place in the space
somewhere between the retina and conscious mind.

oh lover-

you who say my name
like the prayer of a dying man
cursing the world with the last words
leaving his lungs-

you hold me
in pieces that don’t match anymore,
in pieces that splinter into each other
the closer you press.

••ari purkayastha

fourteen years and a half.

my rhythm,

fourteen years and a half has passed
yet somewhere your beat
still resonates,
for i remain not much
but a collection of stories
bound in a novel of erased memories.

 

you echo.

i remember neither the sound of your laughter,
nor the way you whispered my name.

or how ever our air bent to collect your voice
and deliver, the cherished baritone
of your lips,
unscathed and treasured
within my years

for i like a fool, failed to revere words,
whose absence today
haunts me.

 

you pulsate.

we remain truly torn
yet i find myself tangled in these strings,
bearing the throb of your veins
like a drum, rolling upon my skin,

and i shiver for those million whips
osculate the blood within,
and they rise
to match your tempo.

 

you reverberate.

an autumn wind
beats against barren branches
whence no leaves dance to,
and I am engulfed by
every drop of water
that floods the floors with faces,
albeit faceless.

a remnant of facade within the
fresh rusted leaves,
vanquished
underneath the rugged roots.

 

you recur.

your palette.
my canvas.
and your fingers,
that brushed my face
to our evenings,

are mere verses- that whisper through
my headphones today-

of our partings, as the sun set
and the dusk danced
to our farewells.

i weep tearless sorrows
when i look at crayons,
for i recall with warm recollection
how you sketched my smiles
-that the clock charcoaled-
and breathed life
through your fingertips,
while i massacred those irrelevant outlines
with both my hands.

you laughed

i hid my face in your neck.

my hair tickled your paints,
and you shaded me.

 

you resound.

every throb of time
is a cruel reminiscence of those hours
when the cold air wrapped
those murky mornings,
and you stood on our bridge
minutes before school.

your bones enfolded mine,
and the prosaic bricks
baked into auburn cobblestones.

those touches were scorched in my iris.

 

you resonate.

within the moonlit drizzle,
every thought of mine
is drenched with the fire
rekindled,
by the frosted memories
that cascade upon our
guileless childhood

and i raise my wrist
to the roaring showers,
letting the thunders
slip in my veins.

 

you replay.

fourteen years and a half has passed,
and today your phantom has
become the rhythm
my thoughts beat to.

 

your fallen.

 

••ari purkayastha

little known things about you.

you’re a distance i’ve been chasing for 18 years- acting like the miles are getting shorter when all the skyline is doing is following you somewhere beyond the borders of existence.

i’ve lost the skyline as my compass.

there’s an entire river between us, and the reality of the other side of the bank is still up for a debate. too much dreaming and not enough booze will do that to you- steal the consequences long before you’ve even thought of them.

you were the probability of a consequence. a random chance at being if and never when.

these words are hurting me today. there’s too many minute detailed differences to their definitions and still none of it fits you. it’s almost as if you’re struggling between the transition from lost to lover, and the sentences keep running right into each other like two waves-

losing their shape at the horizon; unseen but true.

••ari purkayastha

a love note to my hallucinations.

lover,

you’re growing over me like a wound-
a song i just can’t let leave my lips, so you remain
within me,
trapped without a name;

without anything more than a recognition-

lover.

you age into me-

something like a prayer
that is sacrificing itself over the altar of
a distant probability of being called
ours;

something like a curse that escapes my lungs
in violent shapes of your name,
before shattering into the hollow
of my voice-
still bleeding on the ground
from the time
wild-sparrows screamed for you on my tongue;

something like a memory
that is crying in the corners of my pelvis
between silent gasps of the evening-
when your footprints curl into themselves
as Luna lays her breast to my spine;

something like a betrayal
that you press into my skin,
every time another atheist is hanged at
the cross;

something like the breath
stolen from the chest
of my corpse.

lover,

you die inside of me like an afterthought-
between two decades, and a
fractured reverie.

••ari purkayastha

something without a say.

“i’m empty-
like a virgin womb,
dead inside.”

 

i have nothing for you today.

no words to hastily scribble on coffee stained papers and tuck into the pockets of your life- that you could pull out and read at a bus stand when it’s raining too loud for the moon to hear you scream, or throw away when it gets too crowded with little folded pieces of long numbers full of short affairs.

no poems to press into your skin when the winter gets so lasting, that you begin to forget the shape of the silence growing through your veins.

there’s a lot of silence.

too many minutes filled with nothing but hesitant colloquies and unhesitant farewells, and just a few without the paralysed longing.

 

••ari purkayastha

letters for a certain nobody #1.

19th December, 2016.
1:24 am.

everything is a little hazy tonight- almost like i’ve been drugged, and your name has become a martyr- fighting a losing battle for structure on my lips.

i can’t seem to remember how you had etched your entire life on your fingertips in a single night, when the echoes of their voices seemed trapped in the marrow of your bones, and you could hear their sighs wrap around your tongue like a brittled wisp of desert air thirsting for recognition. but you did. maybe you could remind me again someday when your teeth are closer to my ears than they are today.

fourteen years are a long time to think of someone every time you open your palm to seize their fingers (paused in hesitation a few mere inches from your face), and watching your frangible phantasms flitter away-

and yet, on nights like this, when the windows rattle from their lack of faith, i press the phonetics of your anonym into my sheets, and watch my silent lover drape her elbows over my breast and hum a lullaby composed of their garbled connotations.

you’re not here anymore- and still it feels like you’ve been here for that moment when the earth tilted on it’s axis and it’s magnetic dipoles were working against us with each step we tried to take away from each other.

but you haven’t been here for a long time now-
for longer than i have had this name.
and for longer than i have known the definition of longing.

ari.

the things we do, when the night feels blind.

you are a rain storm resting on my lashes like a moth- drunk on depression.

i can almost taste the death on your lips, as if you’d just spent the last few months kissing every grave where a sense of longing lingers for the longest of seconds, before writing an eulogy on my chin and tying them up in my hair like a spider web of delayed farewells.

you’re gone-

like a comet desperately lost behind the eyelids- between a blink and a sigh. maybe you were just never here. or maybe, your grief was far too dense to remain anything but a black hole stealing my eyesight.

this night is blind- i could fall on my knees and ask her to marry me, but the sound of you plucking out each seed off a decayed dandelion still makes her bury her face in your chest.

she’d never hear me.

••ari purkayastha