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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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.

 

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.

His Last Vow (headcanon)

Moments after Sherlock is seated and the jet’s door shuts quietly behind Mycroft—no ceremony there—and the plane begins to lift off the ground, he collapses.

His face pressed into his hands, breathing ragged, muscles stiffening under the strain of superhuman effort for control. Between frantic breaths, he scoffs at his outburst—but there is none of his usual sharpness of self-criticism.

He sits like that for long moments, letting his heart slow down, then he slowly decompresses his hands from his face thinking—

John

“Can’t you see what’s going on?”

—an easily missed crack in his voice as he whispers to the loneliness around him.