you’re the kind of love that
taints hearts and breaks bones.
the kind that echoes uncertainty,
and mourns poetry-
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.
Last post as an 18 year old.
14th April, 2017.
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.
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
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.
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
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-
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
we still haven’t begun counting-
you and i.
we still can’t bring ourselves to just
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.
i’d break a hundred stars in your name.
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.
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.
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.
you’d asked me to wait,
and i had forgotten
the quiet sound
of your prayer
falling softly through
a broken february
we spit out our longing
at our feet
and fucked the demons
under our beds
as if the sky was
of ocular melanoma.