Repeat

So it’s not you.
You’re not the one I’m going to curl up with under the blankets on the slow Sunday mornings.

You’re not the one that will dance around that oh-so messy apartment in some part of I-still-don’t-know-where-in-the-world with me, dressed in our work clothes.

You won’t bicker with me as we decide on how much sugar is just right for the spicy masala chai that we plan on drinking as we watch the rain.

You will never be the person who gets along with my best friend almost as much as I do (funny, because you are the one whose glasses she wants to punch off at the moment).

You won’t be the one to stay, even when I push against my walls, trying not to let them collapse, trying not to let you in.

You just won’t be the one I bring home to the dyfunctional mess I call a family.

So, for now, I’ll just repeat the words I always tell everyone, the words that have been echoed so much that I forgot whether they were true or not, the words that you took for face value, not bothering to check if they were true or not.
It’s fine.

Tizita

Tizita is a genre of Ethiopian music that characteristically describes longing, memory, and nostalgia. Image used not owned by me.

 

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The notes flowed husky

From their throats.

Closing her eyes,

And leaning into the music,

She saw around her

A distant city

She had only seen

In pictures

And in her haziest dreams.

She felt a pull

She’d only felt before

Towards the dusty streets

Of her hometown.

Was this where she was destined for?

She only knew one thing-

She would give anything to find out.

The Dancer and The Writer: 3

Three

I dance.

I try to tell him

How much he affects me

How his influx into my life

Has offset the harmony

How he has breached boundaries

That I let no one near.

How he forced his way in.

But I can’t find the words.

I am not like him.

Words do not come to me

As naturally as they do for him.

So I dance,

And I show him.

 

I write.

She is my muse

And she is my poetry.

I write to understand her

To define her

Pages and pages

Are filled with her

And yet it is not her.

Secretly, I am glad of my failure

Because once

I succeed in my attempts

It will be the end

Of us.

And yet,

For the life of me

I cannot stop.

So I write.

The Dancer and The Writer: 2

Two

He speaks to me

Smiling an honest smile

And I know then

That he is different.

I invite him into my life

But cannot let him in

Farther than the outer boundaries.

The world has given me

Nothing but hurt

And why would he be any different?

I muse.

And yet, even if only a little,

I let him in.

 

I speak and she listens.

I talk of my travels

Of the worlds I have been to

Of the people who shared my path

If even for a short time,

And she listens.

She does not speak much

She does not talk of her path

But I know.

I see the path she has travelled

In her eyes.

I see the walls around her heart

And I vow then and there

That I will break them down.

365

girl-923356_960_720

365 days can take you places.
Maybe in some other world,
With alien surroundings
And foreign people
Somehow yet holding in their eyes
A warmth that is the only familiar thing,
Maybe that is where you will be.
All the universe needs
To change and restructure
Around you
Is but a second,
So what of three hundred and sixty five days?

Image labelled free for reuse.

Beauty

blue-draw-fish-girl-favim-com-1313322

Her deep breaths
And the suddenly quiet sea,
This is beauty for me.
How she consumes me,
The way she never stays quite long enough,
Always hours short,
How she stays as salty fragrance,
Somewhere in the folds of my clothes,
Even gone.
The curve of her spine
As she holds me to her,
As our dangling bare feet tangle.
How her dreams are now mine,
And my life is now hers-
Beauty.

Image credits: http://favim.com/image/1313322/

Wild Child

And on some days, she is the wild child,
Head held high with pride,
Single eyebrow raised,
Lips twisted in arrogance, even.
Determined to take one last selfie
Of her patiently uncut,
Years-old waist-length hair,
Before chopping it blunt
Just below her chin
With the kitchen scissors

Cutting herself free.

tumblr_n41g13etnh1txd67to1_1280

Image not owned by me: Credits: Camille Marie Art. Camarie-art.tumblr.com

Seek

I have seen him;
In an old faded photograph,
his laughing face amidst a sea of laughs
looking back through sparkling eyes;
I have seen him.
I have heard his voice;
Through the crackling speakers
Of a decrepit black telephone,
Hidden in a dusty corner of my-our-his room,
Uttering flawless Urdu verses,
Mesmerising, like the sunlight
that caroms off each ripple of the endless river;
I have heard his voice.
I have known him;
In a sketchbook that ended without ending,
Through the eyes of every stranger
who is his friend,
Who speaks incessantly
Of his wild untameable life,
Of how he only knows happiness
In its truest form- as freedom;
I have known him.
I see him now,
In front of me,
As we stand among an overwhelmed rout,
And our eyes meet for the first time,
The Seeker and the Seeked,
But know this,
I have seen him,
I have heard his voice,
I have known him for eons.

Cogitation of a Revolutionary

I am the upstart.
I thought rebellion first,
I questioned what others accepted.
I am ground zero,
From where the red blood started flowing.
I walk in red footprints left behind
By forgotten men and women.
My future is defined
In one of two ways.
If I live,
I shall live free.
If I die,
I shall die
And spark off
A hundred more rebels
Who will, perhaps,
Walk in my bloodied path.

The To-Do List

Call me with simple words.
I am your poet, be my poetry.
Dance with me as the city sleeps.
As absurd as I come,
Be more outrageous.
Be my voice of reason,
And let me be yours.
Be the warmth
That makes my hairs stand on end.
Write with my words,
Breathe my breaths.
Be silent, and make me wonder,
Feed my insecurities,
If only a little,
For we should be bittersweet.
Inspire me,
Let me find beauty in you.
Love me even as I hate myself.
And as I hate myself, I will love you.