to cross over unasked distances.

i tie our footprints into the dream-catchers
hanging off the beak of blackbirds,
that are on the verge of falling off
of an unconscious reverie
and into a sentient malaise,
over the way your irises decayed
around your pupils
when they descried skeletal love letters
dated upon northern wheatear bones.

••ra’ahe khayat

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the routine sound of chipping ourselves.

we’re both nerves climbing over each other-

losing static each time we collapse,
losing pattern each time we rearrange,
losing memory each time we let go.

we forget.

i hold on to the threads
resembling those wrapped around your throat,
as if they might crawl
the amplitude of your voice
crushed under distance
with the same desperation with which
i sew them into my skin.

but it’s there-
somewhere;
a flicker of a sound
that bled right out of your ghost
and into the marrow of my bones.

it echoes-
ceaselessly,
carelessly,
almost as if it isn’t losing itself
each time it collides inside me.

almost as if i’m not
losing you.

••ra’ahe khayat

NEWS ALERT!

Sorry for such a dramatic title, I promise that this is a temporary post.

So, over the last few weeks, I have been thinking that I need to start using a new name, because apparently Ari Purkayastha isn’t very easily concealed. I won’t go into the details of why I don’t like to use my real name, but I just don’t like people I know to know that I write. Even if it is occasionally. For me, my writing is very private, and I cannot share it with anyone with a face. And for people to walk up to me and talk to me about my writing is a nightmare I don’t wanna relieve. “Ari Purkayastha” is a part of my real name, that I just shorten.

So basically, I’ll be changing my name completely, and will be writing under a pen name. I’ve thought a lot over this, and honestly it is not easy for me to do, and I understand that it’s not easy for my readers either to start seeing poems/proses from a stranger on my blog. Which is why I am posting this, so that my regular readers don’t get confused and start thinking that my blog has been taken over by someone else. I will be going back and changing the names on all the poems on the blog within this week, and I really hope that you all support me.

The name I’ll be writing under is Ra’ahe Khayat.

In Urdu, Raahe means roads, and Khayat means weaver. I loved the entire implication of the name, so there you go, my reason for choosing it. I hope you don’t mind, because the mind behind the words will be the same, even if the name changes, and that is literally as far as I can go from my original name.

Here is the facebook link to my profile, if anyone wants to connect with me: https://www.facebook.com/raahe.khayat

Thank you,

Ra’ahe.

the palace, the hospital, and the museum.

the palace.

you have grown into the habit of walking out,
and grown out of the habit of sneaking past the door
when we slept-
because you were convinced
that the walls slammed into our bones
hard enough to make us sick.

you used to think of every coincidence
as fate.

i don’t know what you think of anymore.

these last few years,
you’ve been leaving too many footprints
on the floors
from the number of times
you’ve almost walked out,
because the seasons were seeping through the ceiling
and you’ve been away for far too long
to remember how to
adapt.

the hospital.

we keep painting everything in white
the night
before you come back-

because apparently,
it’s tragic for new tables to have old mats,
but not nearly as much as
for old faces to have new feelings.

the museum.

the thing about hatred is that
it festers-
you can smoke a pack of cigarettes,
build it a necropolis on the branches
of your bronchi, and then
let the city mourn in a year long winter
with violent snowstorms
that rip your trachea out of it’s ground,

and still,
hatred will kill your cells faster
than the cold.

you have stuffed every brick in my body
with the feeling that comes
from never being understood,
and painted it on your tongue
like a mural
hungry for plaudits.

you brought tsunamis crashing into my muscles,
seismic waves rippling under my skin,
where the tectonic plates don’t just
slam into each other,
but skewer through.

some globes make for a much better map-
especially those
with oceans bleeding out through
the rips in the eyelids.

some people make for a much better centerpiece-
especially those
who you’ve already spent years chiseling slowly,
until the only thing holding them upright
was the fear of
falling.

you’ve become a connoisseur of sorts-
collecting our silences disguised
as obedience.

you’ve become something
in the name of being someone else,
and i’ve become just another
mistaken effigy with a broken mouth
screaming at you
to throw me out.

••ari purkayastha


for the person i respect, and the person i resent.

the things that find sound in the quiet.

we are used to finding closure
in the way the years
come closer to us,
on those drugged out nights
when all i can ever truly miss
is the taste of misery
on your fingertips.

i remember,
i used to pray for the single sound of silence
shattering in my voice box;
but it was far too quiet.
too quiet to hear your chest stutter
under my palms,
and too quiet to let go of the sound
of your footsteps that always
walked away.

sometimes,
the lack of a voice really does cage you
inside a room where nothing
ever fades away.

not even the loud incessant bangings of sorrow
on the fragile walls.

••ari purkayastha

crescent.

The ageless stars fall,
and I fall right along with them.
How could I not?
When even they bow
to your majestic beauty;
that to gaze upon you once
they readily renounce,
of their angelic statures,
and fall..

How come one,
as luminescent as you-
came into my
light-less night?
Drowning me in your
candescent breath of life,
you finally made me see
the hidden beauty of ardor.

Your lunar essence,
awakens my soul,
just for it to drift away into
the astral presence
of your ever watching gaze,
so that when ever I feel lost,
or hopeless, and drown into the darkness,
you shine just a little bit brighter
and illuminate my core.

Your grandiose, even the seraphs envy,
because albeit your scars
and imperfections,
you are still
the most captivating being,
that I have ever cohered with.
For like a crescent moon at night
in midst of a million constellations,
you make me fall,
and I fall,
just like the stars..

••ari purkayastha


because the last one was too rough, i wanted to give you something pretty. it’s a piece i had written a couple of years ago, when everything was a lot more simpler, and i was an idealist, instead of a cynic. and when cliche did not make me cringe lol.

for the things i never ask.

i would’ve rather asked you
how many names you’ve scribbled
on the back of your hands
with needles,
and how many of them you’ve stricken out
when the bus stopped
in a screech,
and two footsteps always faltered
on the sidewalks
in a slow contemplation
of death.

i would’ve rather asked you
how many times you’ve stabbed your thighs
with razor blades
that sank perpendicularly
to your veins,
when the wrinkles on their wrists
folded into themselves,
like curtains closing
over their heart chambers.

i would’ve rather asked you
the number of ways
you’ve learned to sing her poem completely,
without ever remembering the stanza
that left her lips
in those seven mute seconds
that somehow got trapped between
your window and her door,
when she had been
choking herself on all those lifeless little sentences
that had wrapped themselves
around her voicebox
like a noose that tightened
every time your lungs skipped a breath.

i could’ve asked you to describe
every single scar on your skin
in microscopic detail-
but sometimes,
your quiet echoes vividly
when my heart falls silent
under your palm.

sometimes,
i live when you don’t speak.

••ari purkayastha

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