i 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-
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.
this 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.
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.
i have been, and i will always be, that pair of eyes that was too restless to ever hold yours when you spoke. i have those hands that were far too engaged in playing with themselves to ever acknowledge yours; and i have a tongue that only ever talked with the empty rooms to remember how it felt to utter words within ears of a breathing person.
so you see, how could the person i wrote of be any more real than myself?
you have been that stranger that offered me free shots of tequila, and the unfulfilled promise of a night together where we fucked more than just our bodies (where we fucked our hearts into submission, because there is nothing more degrading and beautiful than to watch your heart beat in a submissive whimper- too broken to even consider the thought of being unfaithful), and you are that sense of hurry in the crowd that crashes into me with every step, falters my path and walks away as if the collision just never happened.
you, were that delusion of mine that I expected to hold me on a night when my own breathing became too silent, and the bed became a quick sand of insomnia.
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.
these days are shattering into mirrors of that evening when i was too far away to be able to see how the path curved over your wrist in a distant attempt to forge new roads over old highways, that ran straight to hell.
roads that grew on the sidewalks of graveyards where canaries came to die.
you were a canary- with a weightless soul.
i remember reading somewhere that the soul of a human weighs the most. you turned into something less than a human that day- starving for, and yet full of an empty sort of feeling, that came when you lit candles in a church where it was a sin to pray.
i don’t remember if we ever prayed though. i do however remember you being on your knees, and whispering her name like an invocation-
the name of a woman lost to the night you broke your ribs over a mantelpiece of corpses, to remember a sky smudged with poems of long faded love stories.
you’re standing on the shoulders of a sea shell, that i’m pretty sure was placed strategically to hide tips of the gravestone where two women lay buried- in an octagonal casket- their toes barely touching, and their lips just a breath away- if only they could breathe.
but there are breaths in your lungs and miles in your legs, and we are still too far for even my fingertips to remember the quiet tickle of your eyelashes, from days when there were comets showering through our rooftops instead of the thirsty july rains, and i traced the valleys on your cheekbones- weathered from that single tear that slipped from mine.
i was losing more than just a heart.
we are at a standstill on the windowsills of two towers- that would probably be used to study the movements of the sun a thousand years from now, when civilization will have forgotten it’s civility and could only remember how the day drowns in dusks-
while you gamble away those last few seconds (when your back was toward the door that was still facing me), for another chance to draw from a deck that was itself begging for density.
there are three leaves of spades left in the hollow of your neck-
and one lost to the autumn of my grief.
19th December, 2016.
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.
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.
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 you chest.
she’d never hear me.