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.

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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.

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.