Of Some Words & More

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

to cross over unasked distances.

i tie our footprints into the dream-catchers
hanging off the beak of blackbirds,
that are on the verge of falling off
of an unconscious reverie
and into a sentient malaise,
over the way your irises decayed
around your pupils
when they descried skeletal love letters
dated upon northern wheatear bones.

••ra’ahe khayat

the routine sound of chipping ourselves.

we’re both nerves climbing over each other-

losing static each time we collapse,
losing pattern each time we rearrange,
losing memory each time we let go.

we forget.

i hold on to the threads
resembling those wrapped around your throat,
as if they might crawl
the amplitude of your voice
crushed under distance
with the same desperation with which
i sew them into my skin.

but it’s there-
somewhere;
a flicker of a sound
that bled right out of your ghost
and into the marrow of my bones.

it echoes-
ceaselessly,
carelessly,
almost as if it isn’t losing itself
each time it collides inside me.

almost as if i’m not
losing you.

••ra’ahe khayat

NEWS ALERT!

Sorry for such a dramatic title, I promise that this is a temporary post.

So, over the last few weeks, I have been thinking that I need to start using a new name, because apparently Ari Purkayastha isn’t very easily concealed. I won’t go into the details of why I don’t like to use my real name, but I just don’t like people I know to know that I write. Even if it is occasionally. For me, my writing is very private, and I cannot share it with anyone with a face. And for people to walk up to me and talk to me about my writing is a nightmare I don’t wanna relieve. “Ari Purkayastha” is a part of my real name, that I just shorten.

So basically, I’ll be changing my name completely, and will be writing under a pen name. I’ve thought a lot over this, and honestly it is not easy for me to do, and I understand that it’s not easy for my readers either to start seeing poems/proses from a stranger on my blog. Which is why I am posting this, so that my regular readers don’t get confused and start thinking that my blog has been taken over by someone else. I will be going back and changing the names on all the poems on the blog within this week, and I really hope that you all support me.

The name I’ll be writing under is Ra’ahe Khayat.

In Urdu, Raahe means roads, and Khayat means weaver. I loved the entire implication of the name, so there you go, my reason for choosing it. I hope you don’t mind, because the mind behind the words will be the same, even if the name changes, and that is literally as far as I can go from my original name.

Here is the facebook link to my profile, if anyone wants to connect with me: https://www.facebook.com/raahe.khayat

Thank you,

Ra’ahe.

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

the palace, the hospital, and the museum.

the palace.

you have grown into the habit of walking out,
and grown out of the habit of sneaking past the door
when we slept-
because you were convinced
that the walls slammed into our bones
hard enough to make us sick.

you used to think of every coincidence
as fate.

i don’t know what you think of anymore.

these last few years,
you’ve been leaving too many footprints
on the floors
from the number of times
you’ve almost walked out,
because the seasons were seeping through the ceiling
and you’ve been away for far too long
to remember how to
adapt.

the hospital.

we keep painting everything in white
the night
before you come back-

because apparently,
it’s tragic for new tables to have old mats,
but not nearly as much as
for old faces to have new feelings.

the museum.

the thing about hatred is that
it festers-
you can smoke a pack of cigarettes,
build it a necropolis on the branches
of your bronchi, and then
let the city mourn in a year long winter
with violent snowstorms
that rip your trachea out of it’s ground,

and still,
hatred will kill your cells faster
than the cold.

you have stuffed every brick in my body
with the feeling that comes
from never being understood,
and painted it on your tongue
like a mural
hungry for plaudits.

you brought tsunamis crashing into my muscles,
seismic waves rippling under my skin,
where the tectonic plates don’t just
slam into each other,
but skewer through.

some globes make for a much better map-
especially those
with oceans bleeding out through
the rips in the eyelids.

some people make for a much better centerpiece-
especially those
who you’ve already spent years chiseling slowly,
until the only thing holding them upright
was the fear of
falling.

you’ve become a connoisseur of sorts-
collecting our silences disguised
as obedience.

you’ve become something
in the name of being someone else,
and i’ve become just another
mistaken effigy with a broken mouth
screaming at you
to throw me out.

••ari purkayastha


for the person i respect, and the person i resent.

the things that find sound in the quiet.

we are used to finding closure
in the way the years
come closer to us,
on those drugged out nights
when all i can ever truly miss
is the taste of misery
on your fingertips.

i remember,
i used to pray for the single sound of silence
shattering in my voice box;
but it was far too quiet.
too quiet to hear your chest stutter
under my palms,
and too quiet to let go of the sound
of your footsteps that always
walked away.

sometimes,
the lack of a voice really does cage you
inside a room where nothing
ever fades away.

not even the loud incessant bangings of sorrow
on the fragile walls.

••ari purkayastha

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.