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.

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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.

What If

What of the grand gestures of love?
If all I’d ever wanted was you
to read me like a book,
cover to cover like an old favourite.
Word to word.
The velvet binding now tattered.

Whisper me in the
quiet of the long nights.
Pronounce me, proud,
during day’s light.

What of you promising me forever?
If we are to die once born,
over and over.

What If all I’d wanted was to lie down on
the lush green earth,
or an yellow desert,
a rugged brown slope,
a singing sea cove?

What of turning me into a song?
If all I’d ever want is you
to sing the unsung.

What of your words?
If all I’d wanted was you
to lie down in silence with me,
Because,
The world is too full to talk about,
And only in silence, soul’s transpire.

I know,
Love is letting go,
Freedom not confinement.

But you’ll never know,
you’ve
never loved a book,
never lived,
never sung,
never seen the dewdrop
on a leaf.
You exist in ignorance.
In lonesome darkness,
empty confinement.
In mindlessness.

And all I would ever need are mere
‘What Ifs’