of some words & more

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

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

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

of evenings when it becomes harder to hold on to faith.

handthis 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.

••ari purkayastha

why horizons are synonymous with heart-break.

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.

••ari purkayastha

there was space, and there was the empty distance between us.

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?

and you—

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—

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.

••ari purkayastha

of suicides and the living.

“watch-
as your hand falters and falls between five lines of a music sheet, torn right before a hastily scribbled apology. suicides do that. they climb over your back and break your spine with the slightest pressure of their voices, while you still hear the hum-
missing a note. skipping a note like it never existed.”

•••

there are too many different sorts of variations to this song and i still couldn’t seem to remember the first line before you were gone.

i never knew that you could lose people to the turbulence of a whiskey bottle until you proved that gravity was unbiased; that a one litre bottle could be just as deep, and hold just as many coffins as the bermuda triangle.

guess you learn something new each day.

sometimes i wish you hadn’t left anything behind. voices tend to have a ghost like ability to be heard when they had never even bothered to speak, and yet they can’t be shut down- you can’t silence what’s “there” and not yet gone, because “gone” is from the global list of living people and not from the list of people i “let go”.

you can’t let go of the living.

especially not when your own lungs have been acting like a surrogate for their collapsed ones.

isn’t that how you differentiate between the living and the dead anyways? by the people who are breathing and the people who are not?

••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