of some words & more

fourteen years and a half.

my rhythm,

fourteen years and a half has passed
yet somewhere your beat
still resonates,
for i remain not much
but a collection of stories
bound in a novel of erased memories.

 

you echo.

i remember neither the sound of your laughter,
nor the way you whispered my name.

or how ever our air bent to collect your voice
and deliver, the cherished baritone
of your lips,
unscathed and treasured
within my years

for i like a fool, failed to revere words,
whose absence today
haunts me.

 

you pulsate.

we remain truly torn
yet i find myself tangled in these strings,
bearing the throb of your veins
like a drum, rolling upon my skin,

and i shiver for those million whips
osculate the blood within,
and they rise
to match your tempo.

 

you reverberate.

an autumn wind
beats against barren branches
whence no leaves dance to,
and I am engulfed by
every drop of water
that floods the floors with faces,
albeit faceless.

a remnant of facade within the
fresh rusted leaves,
vanquished
underneath the rugged roots.

 

you recur.

your palette.
my canvas.
and your fingers,
that brushed my face
to our evenings,

are mere verses- that whisper through
my headphones today-

of our partings, as the sun set
and the dusk danced
to our farewells.

i weep tearless sorrows
when i look at crayons,
for i recall with warm recollection
how you sketched my smiles
-that the clock charcoaled-
and breathed life
through your fingertips,
while i massacred those irrelevant outlines
with both my hands.

you laughed

i hid my face in your neck.

my hair tickled your paints,
and you shaded me.

 

you resound.

every throb of time
is a cruel reminiscence of those hours
when the cold air wrapped
those murky mornings,
and you stood on our bridge
minutes before school.

your bones enfolded mine,
and the prosaic bricks
baked into auburn cobblestones.

those touches were scorched in my iris.

 

you resonate.

within the moonlit drizzle,
every thought of mine
is drenched with the fire
rekindled,
by the frosted memories
that cascade upon our
guileless childhood

and i raise my wrist
to the roaring showers,
letting the thunders
slip in my veins.

 

you replay.

fourteen years and a half has passed,
and today your phantom has
become the rhythm
my thoughts beat to.

 

your fallen.

 

••ari purkayastha

little known things about you.

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.

••ari purkayastha

of human and what makes you.

dreamless.

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.

••ari purkayastha

some lost trinkets of ours are learning to speak.

sometimes,
you remind me of entire worlds
still talking in sign-language;

of a time when the only way to communicate
was by tracing every fold on your forehead
with my nose-
like a love letter written in
braille.

we spoke much like the stars do
from a distance of a million miles-
by bending the light around our lips,
and watching it get lost
in a stranger’s hair.

your words are still searching for
a semblance of familiarity
on my tongue.

 

••ari purkayastha

a love note to my hallucinations.

lover,

you’re growing over me like a wound-
a song i just can’t let leave my lips, so you remain
within me,
trapped without a name;

without anything more than a recognition-

lover.

you age into me-

something like a prayer
that is sacrificing itself over the altar of
a distant probability of being called
ours;

something like a curse that escapes my lungs
in violent shapes of your name,
before shattering into the hollow
of my voice-
still bleeding on the ground
from the time
wild-sparrows screamed for you on my tongue;

something like a memory
that is crying in the corners of my pelvis
between silent gasps of the evening-
when your footprints curl into themselves
as Luna lays her breast to my spine;

something like a betrayal
that you press into my skin,
every time another atheist is hanged at
the cross;

something like the breath
stolen from the chest
of my corpse.

lover,

you die inside of me like an afterthought-
between two decades, and a
fractured reverie.

••ari purkayastha

something without a say.

“i’m empty-
like a virgin womb,
dead inside.”

 

i have nothing for you today.

no words to hastily scribble on coffee stained papers and tuck into the pockets of your life- that you could pull out and read at a bus stand when it’s raining too loud for the moon to hear you scream, or throw away when it gets too crowded with little folded pieces of long numbers full of short affairs.

no poems to press into your skin when the winter gets so lasting, that you begin to forget the shape of the silence growing through your veins.

there’s a lot of silence.

too many minutes filled with nothing but hesitant colloquies and unhesitant farewells, and just a few without the paralysed longing.

 

••ari purkayastha

we were straight lines hooked at the beginning.

there were phone-calls
we both ignored,
when the flights took off
and we left for a country
that was lost in the translation from
words to distances.

one of yours kept trembling on my elbows,
when i leaned over
to watch the sky scatter on the ground-
like a bird that was fluttering
with wounded wings.

i never took off towards you again.

we just kept travelling
until the maps abruptly ended,
and we remained hanging onto each other
by a flimsy excuse of
a latitude.

 

••ari purkayastha

where eyes beat for hearts.

there are bones under your bed-
whole skeletons with no hearts,
but eyes that blink
seventy-two times in a minute.

they’re closer to your hands
on nights when
your fingertips hang on to a
doorknob, that bleeds every time
it’s turned to let someone
out.

someone is always walking out.

there’s too much blood
for a heart to pump
and still flutter
in anticipation of
another breath
fading.

 

••ari purkayastha

you’re playing cards with our skin.

i. 

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.

 

ii.

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.

 

iii.

there are three leaves of spades left in the hollow of your neck-

and one lost to the autumn of my grief.

 

 ••ari purkayastha

letters for a certain nobody #1.

19th December, 2016.
1:24 am.

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.

ari.