Lilt of memories
evanesce into the night,
that is born of my death
like a withered feather.
I am the ghost of a rose
blooming in the heart of an obsidian moon,
upon the soul of a fading star.

Scars weep with stories, yet to be unfolded
while I just linger in this ageless agony.
And akin to an abandoned violin
that plays to a phantom presence,
I strum in a theater of nothingness.

Broken piano.
Broken keys.
Will there be something left of me?
When the darkness stops singing,
will I ever sing again?
For my strings are torn, with bleeding edges
while the notes have erupted in a dead symphony,
floating with the remnants
of a long forgotten music,
dancing to the cadence of sorrow..

Taking what is yet to decay,
and embracing the unknown,
shadows light in the eye,
while I crest into the waves of breathless verse.
And my soul whispers eternal words;
words that have lived inside of me,
spoken, never aloud,
yet they thrive, and grow,
like the tears of a widow,
who refuses to believe.

Ink stains the pages,
with the blood of my age,
and the letters drip with woe.
But my mind is free of it’s shattered mirrors-
those tormenting shackles long gone.
And with a haunting
ballad blown to the breeze
I look at the harmony of the befalling dawn.


••ari purkayastha


at where you’d rather not remember to fall asleep.

this day has folded her forehead under your chin and wrapped her ribs around your pelvis in an almost desperate attempt to keep you standing by the wall of an empty bookshelf you built to etch the feeling of being left behind.

it’s easy to write about pain, and easier even to pretend to rewrite ‘escape’ on your prescription bottles as painkillers, but harder still to scream out a suicide note knowing your voice will just echo in your own throat.

people have always preferred to read about tragedies, than listen to them anyhow.

it does becomes rather strange though- trying to explain to a passerby how you were waiting for someone until you weren’t, and how now you’ve forgotten the road you have taken, (if you’ve even walked a mile) because somehow the sun set in the same angle today as it did yesterday and in the past- when you were more than a few light-years away from grief-

when you were more than a few footsteps away from the ossuary of your childlike wishes;

when you were more than a few minutes away from a silent heartbreak.

••ari purkayastha

we tethered on the edge of winter.


we were the last of leaves on the december nights, when icicles crept in on the fires, flickering on top of the house lanterns, and true to our endings, we were separated by thousands of miles of veins running between us. connected, yet disconnected by the awry storm looming within the edges of frozen breeze, you and Ifluttered and fell, like eagle feathers, from the height of a million sighs..


today when our evenings finally break,
city lights shall chase away traces of stars
for history will burn in our bones and ache;
so we don’t chase perfection,
we embrace our scars.


faces from decades ago peer back at me
from the wells
where we threw our new year’s eves
instead of copper dimes,
wishing for more wishes to wish upon;

because somehow I knew
that the streetlight you stood under
would dim,
and shadows would collide
until you became just another obsidian presence
on the walls of a ragged footpath.

time gently wore down the rhapsody
crashing in our eyes..


I think our names still remain written
side by side, carved in a lonely bench
on a rocky beach
like foredoomed lovers;

while we built parallel paths
pebble by pebble,
meeting at a phantom intersection.

we never intersect.

we talk, and write letters with no destination-
for there is none.

you linger in my lungs
like the november heat,
burning a month too late..


decades crept on our bones
as we fluttered like stars
in the evenings.

letters ached,
and november fell into december..

••ari purkayastha

overlooking the lines of clarity.

i’ll come to you tomorrow,
when the their faces fade from my back
and their hands leave my lungs
-raped and alone-
under a bridge where we had hidden
stolen tickets to a land
we were yet to learn to pronounce.

the air is growing heavier
as your voice becomes lighter with each breath
you forget to take.

you sleep-
like a child treasuring
the end to a beginning he was never given.

it’s easy to overlook
the subtle depression to your chest
that deepens with each second.

it’s easy to overlook a lot of things when
the world blurs around your eyes,
and you just never care enough to blink again.

••ari purkayastha

she lingered within a castle of cards.


she, fiddles with the hem of her hair, like she has done a dozen times in dozens of yesterdays, as those yesterdays slipped into the very leaves she crunched under her toes, balancing on some story carelessly gathered in the valley of her skirt. i say careless, because they were the tales of blue jays that shed their feathers on her nails, and rabbit holes just big enough to trap her lungs and stop them from breathing the musky air of madness. or mayhaps not. not madness, but a distinct serenity that mirrored continuity trapped in a spiral loop of iterance; like waves crashing into a cliff some thirty feet tall- within a video set in replay. her neurons wildly mated under the eyes of the clock, as seconds melded into one indistinguishable haze- quite beautiful, if you can find solace in the abstract cries, mourning coincidences. she was no more than a moment begging deliverance, and no less than a year conferring slavery. she, existed. just somewhere, where horizon was a synonym for twilight, and memory was symmetrical to a house of cards, blown apart by the repetitive gust of violet winds trapped in an aseptic ivory catacomb of nerves..

••ari purkayastha

we were lilies wilting on a coffin..



there are sunsets
when some part of that frame
-holding a grotesque
carving of your paints and my inks-
rejects to bear the cracks we made
when we negligently tapped away
to a euphony shivering on our teeth.

much like a naked branch
breathing between broken days-
i and you, were an illusion woven together;

quite preposterous in face of dusk.



because we were no less than the curves
on a calligraphied sketch,
i simply couldn’t conceptualize how long
a stroke it would take me to reach you,

for there live embryonic infinities
in the small span from- zero to one;

and you were farther than
just a step apart.



i think i could see you,
stumbling under the street lights
some miles away.

were you drunk on painted arsenic
or inked tequilas- i’d never know,
because questioning ghosts are
forbidden in the city where i come from;

and you’d never answer
how each bone of yours
seemed to echo in my storms,
as the raindrops wailing on my
window pain slowly
strung a viol with my veins,
using the barbed ends of
your bourbon bottle as a bow.

i didn’t either.



somehow we’ve become
the song of a dying nightingale-
still quite haunting
in the presence of absence;

but like lilies wilting on a closed coffin

you and i, existed between a
nowhere and a somewhere-
somewhat like shadows
with lost identities..


••ari purkayastha

beyond the sounds of a broken voice.

img_20161110_174015_processedYou can’t always seem to gather the sunset in the cup of your palms. It has long been melting like a candle on the tabletop of a moonlit dinner where the other chair has always remained empty and your chair has always tapped tapped tapped away a couple milliseconds behind the second hand of your watch.

It’s hard to let go of your own voice- but I’ve been burying yesterday’s in the open casket of my voice box for what seems like a long time now. There are scratch marks on my neck from each time I slip into that graveyard, and there is dirt beneath your nails from each time you try to dig yourself out, when the road down my clavicle becomes haunted by just the soft sound of a mispronounced goodbye-
and you and I are somehow still struggling to comprehend it’s meaning.


••ari purkayastha