The sky is gray
A continuous shade
I bask in its glory.
The mud turns to clay
A storm is in play
But it never comes.
Each day stays the same
I don’t have to change
A stagnating story.
Your picture is still there,
a lip balm disappears.
Some memory of yours , still undone.
The sky is gray
I love this cliché
I’m comfortably numb.
It has been a long hiatus, I have migrated to a new city, joined a new workspace , made an entire library and workstation but I miss the soothing of the writing I used to have. This hiatus grows on me, every time I try to sleep in the night, I wonder how my words sleep, aching, bellowing in despair to be entangled in a original thought.
It’s difficult to say where to begin and why, I must excuse the exits and replenish this sight. For today although I am drowning in my bed in this darkness, from tomorrow I shall be burning this sabbatical. It’s time to pour, outpour and flood the thoughts, lets begin, shall we?
Yesterday I thought of you
And the yesterday before
It seems as if my yesterdays
Are full of nothing more.
It is not only yesterdays
Of which you've entered in
For tomorrow is soon to come
Where more thoughts of you begin
to never end, dissolve or disappear.
Its the numbing
the air that recedes one’s skin,
a void brews out of nothingness :
when someone exits unannounced
into the last ounce of warmth
remaining in this world.
What else can you add to sadness
to make it reasonable?
to make it decipherable?
to make it bearable?
there are no exits
in this existence,
we are bound
by remembrance
and forgetfullness,
the twin sisters
playing in the night and day.
as you drift away in the bus,
whose windows are made up of just
last night’s raindrops,
remember these castles
and cathedrals : the memoirs of a fading
glorious past, these icy beaches and almost sun kissed shorelines,
melancholic clouds, this wind just before it rains again.
This all brings me back to you.
So if your fingers tingle with a breeze,
Its just me dreaming with you.
I am not there but somewhere
I shall slip into your heart
with a smile for no reason.
Bear this presence till the sun wakes us up.
you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language
while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I wait,
I stare at you
unwaveringly.
outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
whispers
as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.
What’s the opposite of an echo?
Lay your head on my chest,
Under this waxy paper moon and
Tell me what stories hide
In the constellations of your freckles.
Let my fingertips trace over
The epics of our young untameable souls.
Some spines though cracked,
And some pages though torn– but you,
You always remember
Which are my favourites.
“Have we done this before?“
“Tracing ourselves in one another?”
“Yes”, you say
and that mellow smile of yours brews
a breeze smelling of thousand dreams,
I collapse into them. Slowly, again.
Writings to Heaven 