winter rain

Winter rain does more harm than good,
The mountains wait but the flowers don’t bloom.

IMG-20171003-WA0015
A view of Khangchendzonga from Hilley, West Sikkim
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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.

আমার Kolকাta

Shrouded,

bumping off buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead

Slouching,

cowering behind shadows,

growing

like the stench of battery acid

consuming the night sky

black—blacker—blackest.

Kolkata, tall and uneven,

filthy underneath its colours

spicy and sweet,

savoury—

under a swarm of bloodsuckers and flies.

My city collapses on itself:

looser than rubber band stretched for three hundred years,

tight as a virgin arsehole

Now emerging from beneath,

spilling through the cracks and grills,

like liquid tar, burning cold

devouring,

by and by,

slowly slipping into my veins

s l o w l y

drowning me alive, one with the dead.

Fear not,

I whisper to myself every single morning

it is almost over.

_________

Edit: another cliché title which I like better.

2.46 AM

my mind is coaxed awake from a particularly long train of thought, not yet asleep not fully awake, it seems as if sweet dreams were being brought on

because I woke up in a million years—my soul floating up to the stars—my lips forming contentment in all its lazy, luxuriant glory,

my hair soft—even after ages in the sun—healing in the shade of night—my eyes heavy with the weight of your dreams and my senses are filled to the brim

my eyes are closing—i’m floating back down into sleep’s folding embrace and my mind is full of your soft peach lips and your sun warmed skin and your raven hair thick and curling between my fingers,

and I’m back again in your deep blue room and wind blown white curtains, your tumbling pile of books your unmade bed where your lips touched mine for the first time, your stack of records and films strewn around without a care because—because I’m full of you, you with your well-worn shorts and laughter bouncing off the walls, the evening sunlight turning you golden and Edward Sharpe singing Home.

And I am, I am. I am truly, truly, home.