gambling my sobriety away with a god.

i’ve been drinking this cheap bottle of whiskey away with a god who stands beside my bedside every time this farce of a sky begins to shatter sometime after nine twenty-four in the evening, only to let go when it finally does. i think he thinks that i think that i have grown up enough to grow out of these feelings that rise and swell inside my throat like sea waves- only there’s no moon calling them.

or maybe there is, and my eyes have been so clouded in the dark by the crowd of rain that has crowded my lungs that i can’t begin to even make out the edge of luna’s silhouette from the crooked horizon of a raindrop.

but this he doesn’t know- the god who keeps letting me go.

or he didn’t. until last night when the gravity inside me finally broke down and brought upon meteor showers on my skin. (they’ve already caused one mass extinction, is it really so farfetched to think that they might not be incapable of causing another?) but he stood- just outside my reach and told me in a grave whisper that today-

we’d drink.

and so we’re drinking because there’s not much you can do when you finally come to terms with the fact that maybe your eyesight has been deteriorating without you realizing, and the footpath you’ve been walking on for the last year was in actuality the thin rail of line separating two opposite lanes of speeding tyre tracks on a highway leading you somewhere away from where you’ve been intending to go, and all you want to do now is go back to being half blind.

he seems convinced that this shot of bitter metal will do just that- rust our insides so much so that the outside doesn’t matter anymore, and we have long since lost sight of anything remotely resembling the shock of my miscarriage when the last of my sanity bled out of my bones, in a fraudulent attempt at calling my lover back to me.

but death never came for me that night.

••ra’ahe khayat

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the eventuality of successive delay.

he keeps scattering me like birdseeds on the roads, on the twenty-third of every month, some couple hours before the sparrows wake up.

i memorize the crevices in the concrete, and he memorizes the cracks in my bones from where the corpses on his temple dug their way under my skin, and set up cities on top of cemeteries full of smoke that could just never break free of their own pyre. it’s like a routine we follow, such that Luna has about half a fortnight to forebear the consequences of her absence, before she leaves again. she keeps coming back for him though, and he keeps coming back for me, and i keep coming back for the feeling of feeling myself break every night just to be regathered right before the dawn drapes himself on top of an adulterous sky.

i lay there, some couple of thousands of lightyears under the skyline, waiting for little eclipses to tear through my lungs, to bury our verities under their beaks and for him to wrap their wings around his carotid pulse, to learn how to read a receding heartbeat with the minimal knowledge of braille.

i lay there, on the forenoon of the twenty-third of every month, like a clockwork missing time by seconds that never match.

he keeps scattering me like birdseeds on the roads, for dead birds that just never come.

••ra’ahe khayat

of that lie that never mattered.

of all the things you could’ve lied about, you lied about the one thing that never would’ve changed with the truth- of how i could always be the one sleeping in your arms, but we both would still be spending our nights between the legs of loneliness; of how i could always be your lover, but we both would always be in love with the way our hearts beat alone in our chests, unconcerned with the rhythm of another; of how you always curl your hands around my neck, never knowing if you’re suffocating me or the solitude that hangs around me like a dress whose collar ends at the cliff of my chin- that you knot around your neck like a tie- too formal to ever be comfortable in, too familiar to ever to ever let go of.

of all the things you could’ve lied about, you lied about how deserted we both were holding hands that strained to get lost in a crowd full of unrecognizable strangers.

••ari purkayastha

god is dead.

god is dead.

he died seven years ago, on the streets of mumbai- hit by a car, while he stumbled on the sidewalks, mumbling all sorts of obsolescent prayers, as the meth in his veins slowly bestrewed his significance on those half eaten concrete roads, that wrapped itself like a ragged hand-me-down scarf, around a city standing on human bones.

his body lay there for three days before it was discovered by a fisher-maid, setting up her baits, trying to catch skeletons that had somehow learned to float in just that layer of water that was reserved for the living. she never screamed. she never did anything, but walk to a nearby cigarette shop- that sold faux maturity to eleven-years-olds for just a measly price of 5 rupees (or if you were short on the money, you could always pay with the excess of the cells in your lungs), and picked up the half-broken telephone that had gone out-of-date some twenty years ago, to call men who had seen far too many bodies- in more states of decay than a lifelong sexton.

it lay there for another hour- unsupervised- before moving shadows started crowding around it with judgemental eyes, that knew more about him, than he probably ever did. there were more stories on his sullen skin than his tongue ever let on; stories full of naivete, hope and failure. stories that could probably rob the world of another century of hunting answers, in pages written by men a lot less learned than those seeking them.

but he never spoke.

those answers, and those questions, and their answers- they all gradually lost their pallor as the blood drained out of him during his postmortem. they declared that he had overdosed. that he would have died, even if the car hadn’t bashed his head in. that he had been dying long before he finally did. that he had cancer harvesting in his heart. that he was probably suicidal, because his hands looked like they had been a brutal war-ground, where the only winner were those who were not breathing. they said his wrists looked just like the humans he was rumored to have created- scarred and failed. he was depressed, they said.

his face was in the newspapers for eighteen days, waiting to be claimed- in news articles read desperately, only by desperate family members of desperately lost people, who were more conversant about themselves than the rest, to actually advertise that they were indeed lost, and in need of help.

on the twenty-first day, they burned him in a pit with rest of the homeless corpses- no one recognized him.

no children.
no wife.
no family.
no name.

no one knew what god looked like after all.

••ari purkayastha


i’m not trying to make a statement. it’s merely an idea. religion has nothing to do with this essay.

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

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

of roses that fell in love with grief. i.

wp-1493221410020.do you remember how your skin had mottled over her words?

you had thorns digging themselves out of your bones and vines crawling all around your throat, trapping the last remnants of their antipathy to fester in your lungs.

i remember you suffocating for days afterwards. days that were defined by your capability to distinguish the sunrise from sunset. days that were a motley mess of every sound that echoed loud enough in your skull to shatter mirrors. days that you still hold close to yourself, because she left roses at your door-

she who wooed your grief.

i wish you had seen those roses for the fault lines of your heart like she had intended. i wish you had seen those roses as anything other than hope.

••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.

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