evening coffee.

I watch my world fall apart

then come together

when you

push my hair behind my ear.

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31st December

Another year ends, look back—the past tense,

sitting under a quiet evening sky,

remembering fag ends of happy days and sad,

the colours of Holi now a little brown

with heartbreak, new friends, love lost, luck found,

a long scorching summer followed by thundering rain,

the hypnotic boom of dhak, our ten-armed visitant,

faraway places, the scent of the universe in open skies,

feeling the pulse of the mountains in its streams,

long walks and longer daydreams,

a few hurried birthdays, a cousin’s wedding,

lots of reading,

Christmas in a pagan house, homemade wine

and a fruitcake wanting zest.

my earphones blaring music at midnight and movies

all spun into one fabric,

smelling of old newsprint in a damp building

rolled into empty joints and set to fire,

a false high with people, some of who truly care.

 

When tonight spills in through my window, popping into distant sparks

I’ll say my goodbye and wish parts of you don’t come by, again.

 

23:59 December 31st.

IMG_20171231_211838_609.jpg

 

no sunset blues

 

Falta, by the River Ganga. South 24 Parganas, West Bengal.

 

—so many things must have been said about sunset evenings as background framings.

so much—enough to fill the 12,000 electronic cemeteries where we bury our feelings.

But tonight is different:

because I’m walking away,

and not with death pervading my senses

but to my own personal port of familiar sadness—

My sadness is not blue,

it’s gold nail polish with red lipstick,

black coffee and LED screens

—my own silent island of disenchanted daydreams.

Never Mind.

So here we are again,

the same place, once again,

same conversations, same little confessions,

the same little cabin and cocktails,

collecting seashells for unmade necklaces,

white shirts over floral prints

over red lipstick

over transparent nail varnish

over oyster dinners and supermarket arguments.

The same spot under the same lighthouse:

red paint like our toenails and white like the shells placed in a line upon your back.

still investigating pearls under the bright sun:

golden sand stretched into the

crashing white waves into the

swaying blue surface into the

distant sunset;

year after year: one tight circle of security.

And then,

over the sound of roaring water

I heard you say you had fallen out of love with me.

 

Odd

My lonely nights now merge into half remembered days—

—like burnt out flecks of untidy notebook papers that pop out of bonfires and flicker to death—

I sew these fragments together to make sense of the fabric of my existence:

an infinite loop of inhalation and exhalation.

I tell you my days smell like mothballs and burnt honeycombs,

You wonder about my evenings and “I’m afraid” I say, “I’ve forgotten what they are”

you want to take me to sunsets, you say

and paint my nails while your records play,

one moment I’m sure we kissed but the next—”It was a mistake”, you say.

you want to talk about us, you say, standing up to brush your long chocolate hair,

when I help put up lights you love me, you say.

So do I

I’m drawn with odd angles, you say

and that’s what makes me so interesting, you say.

But here I am waiting in your little balcony urban flat out by the midnight hour city limits,

willing the string of fairy lights to wound round my neck

because the bass is getting heavier and the air lighter—

—every minute dragging

—every second a little longer

Where are you? Only further and further away:

nothing, nothing but the silence of a hundred mingled expressions of joy.

but I’m floating away already, frozen to the tips of my hair toes finger hair toes finger nose hair toes finger nose ears hair toes fing—

—just another iceberg drifting in the Arctic.