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.

 

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You won’t understand.

Tell me this—

would you be a part of it?

my life:

an archaeological site of silences,

brush away those cobwebs in corners

and you’ll find absences,

and fissures

which hold no answers.

 

 

If you’re looking for a clue, there’s none to be understood.

 

 

You ask,

how maps can take me away across seas

and give me wings;

you

don’t understand,

that words do travel—fill the crevasses of my mind and invent kingdoms.

you

don’t understand,

and you never will: that our inventions are as different

as sepia-toned nostalgia and brightly coloured daydreams.

 

You

cannot understand,

I only want to be free of all of you,

because you

refuse to understand,

that dull shades of grief sometimes do appear

and none of it is supposed to cohere.

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.

About why we’re never meant to be

The early morning sunshine and you with your milk coffee—a vignette not quite for me,

Because baby,

I’m made of bittersweet black coffees
and late night film-watching sprees.

Dark skin, darker chocolates
and even darker dreams,
don’t really fit in the whiteness of your New York City penthouse dream.

And you with your love for neon signs,
forever oblivious to my trust in the night,

with your earphone music in your
tubelit office at midday never noticing the green garden below,

with your obsession with edges
and all the while I keep falling off them

with your sense of incredulity about my
daily contentment derived from a sunset behind cloudy mountains

with your mania for store bought yogurt
when I taught you how to curdle milk at home

with your compulsive notion of enforcing boundaries
while talking about breaking mine.

So, when I think of what it is I fell in love with

I think,
was it your light brown eyes that appeared a little skeptical in the cafeteria light

Was it
the (deliberately) unsure way you touched your perfect hair,

Was it
my misinterpretation of your confession for the starlit sky

except,
your love was of the patches seen through windows
and in between concrete jungles?

You knew and I now see,
our love was doomed from the beginning
Because baby,

you:
hate the pause of journey in between two cities,
the loneliness which you must fill with parties,
hate my bougainvillea filled balcony and
the occasional worms that crawl out singing,
You hate the sense of comings and goings
and that is the

gap

I exist in.

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.