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

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

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

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