Love Today

Love today,
Is a blurry picture;
It's bikini waxes,
And body features;
Love,
Is no longer I love you,
At the end of a date;
It's more of a,
Wanna fuck?
Sure,
That's great.

Love today,
Has boiled down to,
Calling her cute names;
But not asking her,
If she had a good day.

Love today,
Is all for the show,
And not enough about what's inside the heart;
It's hard to live in such a world,
Where you're a hopeless romantic,
And everyone's just miles apart.

Love today,
Lacks emotions and feelings;
It's a materialised version,
It's Monetary dealings;
It's not about the love,
It's about the size of the diamond rings;
For a hopeless romantic who writes poems,
That stings.

I want love of a simpler kind,
When I love you,
Had actual meaning;
When love and the thought,
Required feelings.

I want a love,
Of the smaller things,
One where you write poetry,
Not buy diamond rings;
One where you need,
Just one mixtape,
To tell her how you feel;
Not a thousand YouTube links,
Just rewind the cassette's reel.

I want the love,
Where you stay up all night,
Talking on the phone,
You wouldn't need night clubs,
You'd just stay at home;
Facebook texts,
Lack a certain feeling,
Like hearing her breathe heavy,
Those things used to have meaning;
Or hearing her laugh,
At a joke you said,
Which you thought was lame,
But she loves you,
All the same.


I want a love,
Where I text her 1-4-3,
A lot of you,
Might not know what that means;
The love that I'm talking about,
Required beepers,
Not phones,
You see.

I wanna love her,
Like she's the most beautiful person I know;
I don't have to see her nudies,
I don't need her private parts on show;
Instead,
I want to know her private parts,
Like why she does what she does,
And why she likes,
Yellow hearts.

I want a love,
Where you love and care,
For one another,
Not parade each other,
Like trophies,
On facebook.

I want a love,
That's emo songs and poetry,
Not heart breaks and fuckery.

Notes to self

You’re worth it
You’ve always been worth it
And although you don’t feel like it most of the time
You. Matter.
Not to the world, not to anyone else
You matter to yourself
You deserve all the life you’ve got; every second of it
And you deserve to grow along with the trees around you
You deserve to learn
You owe it to yourself to grow and to learn
You owe to yourself to make use of how much time you’ve got left
And if you ever need a break,
If you ever feel like it’s getting too real for you
Take a step back; recollect yourself
It’s okay to let yourself roll
It’s okay to make your life a dream, as long as you can handle it
Let it slide
Let it in
Let it love
Let it live

Amen

Departure

The sky had lost its last smear of red. Her black stilettos clanked on the concrete as she made her way to the same spot. It was around this time, every November, she’d come to visit me. Her blue-black hair gleamed even in the dark, casting an eerie look. Her smoky eye makeup didn’t help either – I always hated her fashion choices. To be honest, I hated every choice she made after I left, but there was no stopping her. It was how she expressed her loss, conveyed through layers of paint, glitter and misery.  She tried desperately to conceal her scars, but alas, how could she mask the indelible memories?

She shuddered as she grew closer to her destination, but not out of cold. The concrete had changed to wet moss at some point so the only sound was that of the howling wind. She furrowed her brows as she registered the presence of new stones planted on the ground. More of them. Gradually, she found the stone with my name carved on it. She grazed the writing, reminiscing. All her endeavors to remain composed went in vain; black tinted droplets streamed down her cheeks. Every damn year she would convince herself she was over it, only to break down completely when confronted. From the small pocket of her dress, she pulled out a delicate white flower, exhaled a deep sigh, and gently placed it down. 

She never really forgave me for my premature departure.  

~Noyolee

The Bridge

The sky above us lit up in an odd shade of baby pink. The clouds are sparse up there today, tiny, incoherent lumps of white floating around callously. It's evening time, perhaps. I don't look up, in particular, but I can sense the calmness in the sky, the stillness in the weather and the tranquility all around us. We're in a park? A forest? A meadow...? There are trees all around us, dark brown, bushy trees. The leaves are a fiery tinge of orange, not the fading kind that you see in autumn, not the dead leaves. The leaves are still on the trees, like an orange overcoat tailored to fit the season perfectly. There's not much around, nothing substantial to look at. We're on a bright winding path, extending back to as far as our sight can see in its shimmering glow and going further away into the distance where we aren't paying attention. You're in a white dress, the details of which slip by me. My mind is here, so am I, but I am not focused on the clean ribbon that ties the dress down at your waist, or how the thin straps lie ever so gently on your shoulder. I am more focused on how your thick hair curves around your right eye and falls on your shoulder, how you like to wear your hair on one side, you say that it's because you hate it when your hair gets in your eyes; I suppose wearing glasses doesn't make it any easier.

I cannot recall how long we have been walking, time doesn't seem to have relevance to me now. I am only fixated on the person walking beside me, and she seems happy, and I suppose, so do I. For once, she doesn't catch me brooding my time away, rather, she finds me smiling and conversing and being a different person. I do not know how long this walk is going to be, but I do not want it to end.

In front of us, in the near distance, I can see a stream, a rushing stream. The sound of the gushing water over the lush banks of yellow grass is so endearing, we speed up our pace, the stream seeks to be the center of attraction now. Over the blue, restless stream, lies an old wooden bridge, it's no special bridge but it is beautiful, rustic and perhaps even unstable, at this point. Simplicity has always been more captivating than forced exuberance. For a moment, I do not wish to crossover the bridge, I want to sit by the stream and let the time pass, for a while, as if I'd be willing to do anything to make this walk last longer. I am not particularly interested in where we are going, rather I am interested in talking this walk with you; a walk that does not need a destination. You seem to be happy, until you are no longer. You're caught in a hurry but I do not know why, you start walking again, and I follow, for I have always followed.

We're on the bridge, but no longer walking side by side, you seem to be eager to crossover the bridge, you are no longer interested in admiring the natural beauty around us. Perhaps, I wasn't either, all this while, I was enthralled by your bewildering sight; too bewitched to notice how the birds chirped stopped chirping around us, or how the pink sky was finally turning grey, I was too busy to notice the sun setting on our perfect evening. I didn't notice, any of it.

The bridge doesn't bode too well as we walk over it, I take cautious steps, but you no longer seem to be worried. As I walk slowly, I notice the bridge cracking behind me. I try to catch up to you, and perhaps, I realised that I should speed up my pace as well. We finally crossed over, to the other side, but I suppose, we left the bridge a little too weak.

The winding path behind us no longer seemed to continue the same way. Ahead of us was a short walk until the meadow cleaved into the pathway separating it into two different ways, going far away from each other. I walked behind you, you did not seem like you wanted to talk. Your hands were folded on top of each other, your gaze no longer towards the road, it shifted downwards. You looked at your feet on the dull road, as if you were trying to hold on to this walk a little longer, trying not to be interested in where we were going.

You finally let your hands down, you stand, still and you look back at me. You give me a forlorn look, one of sadness, anger or maybe some of both. I have always tried to understand the mystery hidden behind your eyes but this time I cannot decipher this code that you have put up for me. You turn around and walk, this time, eyes perfectly placed on the road ahead and you walk away from where the road parts, on the brighter side of the road, where the meadow cleaved into our pathway.

I find myself, at the mouth of the partition, I want to go back, for a moment, I walk down the path from where we came, this time without you. I had more time to notice mature now, I walked very slowly, as if to prolong my walk, as to allow the time to pass without me. I noticed now, how the baby pink sky was no longer bright, how the orange leaves weren't actually orange, everything was dull now. I had finally reached the stream, but the bridge was no longer there, I could not cross over, to where we came from. I suppose, we burned that bridge down when we crossed it.

Metaphors

I have always been afraid of heights,
Just looking down the balcony made me quiver,
But lately I've been hanging on a ledge,
Only this time I didn't shiver.

My knees locked,
My body caved in;
But for reasons apart,
Perhaps a drunken sin.

I dangled from above,
But this time I looked down;
There was no one to save me,.
She wasn't around

I held on with one hand,
I thought of letting go;
The ledge turned to straw,
I couldn't hold on anymore;
I remember falling,
But I looked down in delight;
I had finally let go,
Of my fear of heights.
(and falling)

Next thing I remember,
I am on the beach,
Where the ocean and the land,
Are at hand's reach.

The ocean travels the world,
And it meets the sand,
Only,
To be pushed back again.

The beige sand seems accepting at first,
But it changes its mind,
It gives the ocean a thrust.

The ocean doesn't give up,
It loved the sand,
In efforts vain,
He came back again.

Only this time,
The restless wave lost its might,
It's hopeless efforts,
Fell rather light.

I'm on my roof,
I'm admiring the sky,
The thing about it is,
It doesn't lie,
It is calm in its lilac serenity,
Red in its angry rage,
The sky never hid,
Behind it's blue cage.

The sky looked ethereal,
In its bright sundress,
I loved it dearly,
In dry and in drench.

But my sky,
Shuts me out,
It hides behind,
The darkest cloud;
I stare,
I gaze,
In patience,
I wait;
But nothing.

I stare at the mirror,
I look at myself,
My skin turns pale,
Dear, I need help.

I do not want a life of metaphors,
Anymore,
I am empty,
Depleted to my core;
I do not want to think of you,
My sky;
I no longer want to bear the thought,
That my clouds cry.

I do not want your rage,
I want serenity.

I do not want to be your ocean,
I no longer want to be pushed away,
I no longer want the waves to be,
My heart that sways.

I am tired of falling,
I want the straw,
To be concrete ground,
I want my night's sleep
To finally be sound.

I am hurting inside,
But I cannot show,
I do not want these metaphors,
Anymore.

Lilaboti

The cold water felt good on his skin. It made him feel numb, something he desperately needed right now. The steady stream coming out of the showerhead washed the soap down his body, forming a creamy puddle around his feet. It looked like it was clinging to him, using him as support to survive the torrent trying to pull it way. He lifted his feet, slowly letting it go. Some things need to fade away before you give them hope.

He looked into the mirror as the puddle of foam started washing away. He wondered if the foam felt any pain as the drain consumed whatever life was left in it. Or was it numbed by the cold water too? He looked for himself in the mirror, for whatever of his youth was left. He cleared the fog on the mirror with his hand to get a better look.

The face of a confused old man stared back at him, almost as it was accusing him of something. He took a step back, afraid of his own reflection. What was he worth anymore? What kept him going?

The five thousand taka he got from his pension was all that was keeping him afloat.

They cut him today. Forced retirement. The new manager felt that he was just too old to withstand the pressure of this sector anymore. He felt like an outdated equipment, something that should have been put out of order a long time ago. He’d never complained about a single thing in the last 20 years. Never left to a company offering a higher salary, never asked for a promotion or complained about one. The only thing twenty years of loyal service had earned him was a retirement party with one cake and a dozen or so balloons. Even then, he was confused whether the people gathering around him were actually there for him or for the cake. And as he got on the 9pm bus for one last time, he tried to contemplate his life, where he’d go from here. How he’d keep her going.

She’d been paralysed for the greater part of the last 10 years. Road accident, major brain damage, lucky to escape death. ‘Lucky’. Ironic word that one. Just ‘lucky’ enough to not die, not to be alive. Is being stuck in a body being unable to move called being lucky? Or is life in itself a gift; however horrible, and painful it may be?

It kept getting harder and harder for him until today. He could manage hard, he couldn’t manage impossible. At least, not anymore. Their only son had just gotten into college. Private uni., six figure semester fee, plus pocket-money for hanging out with friends. His only daughter’s husband had called last week, asking for money. Apparently he’d gambled his last payout away. He threatened to divorce her if he didn’t get it by the end of the month.

He had been trying to find a job, but no one was willing to hire a fifty year old retired press worker. He was worthless now.

The foam was almost non-existent now, they’d faded faster than he thought they would.

His hand reached for a small wooden cabinet beside the mirror. It was worn down. The first thing he felt was a thick layer of mosquito web. Well, at least something found some life amidst all of this. Everything was still as it was five years ago, untouched. Her expired old lipsticks, her eyeliner, even that rose-flavored perfume he’d bought her on her birthday lied there in a corner, covered in dust. 

A teardrop almost escaped his threshold, travelled through the cracks on his face till it melted with the water dripping from his hair.

He didn’t dry himself, instead he put on a pair of ragged old pajamas and dragged himself down the hall to his bedroom. His eyes automatically looked down at the lifeless body lying in his bed. A forty five-ish woman, long and lean in demeanor with the prettiest set of eyes he’d ever seen. She still looked as beautiful to him as she did on day one. A smile covered her pretty face, she almost looked like she was at peace now.

He knelt down beside the bed and kissed her on the lips. It’s been years since she had last kissed him back. And even though she couldn’t say it to him, he knew she was hurting, crying to bite down on his lips for one last time. He wondered if it was selfish to keep her alive like this. The doctors had always been against it. Told him that she was in pain and it was better to say goodbye. But he wasn’t ready to let go, he never will be.

He laid down beside her, slowly, careful not to crumble her dress. He was shaking as he turned towards her, trying to drown his nose in her hair. She still smelt wonderful, he thought. The dimmed light coming from the street in front hurt his eyes. He slowly curled up against her body and covered his eyes with her hair. She felt soft, softer than she already was.

They had no flamboyant romantic backstory, no. They both came from modest backgrounds, never really asking or getting too much from life. Their parents chose them for each other, and they were lucky enough not to hate the guts out of each other. They were a good team yes, good enough to keep going for twenty years. But no, he never thought being in love with her was a possibility.

The first time he felt that she was something special was the night it happened. Office party. She looked wonderful in her matte-maroon sharee and black bangles. He couldn’t look away, not for a second. His sight set on her eyes, even when they got on his bike to get back home.

And then… the usual story.
12 pm, Indira Road, over-speeding car, rich brat drowned in alcohol on a night out with his friends. The case didn’t even go to court. The police filed it as a normal road mishap, with no mention of the boy or his car being there. The boy walked away with a minor warning, nothing else.

He took out all of his savings, did what he could, even loaned some money. Nothing could buy her back, the notes finally felt worthless.

…

It was raining when he came home tonight. His shirt stuck to his body, glued by a mixture of sweat and rain water. He checked up on her pulse the first thing he got home. He has always wondered how her eyes still looked so alive within all that hurt, how she still looked like she’d get up from that wheelchair and welcome him home with a hug. He looked away and opened the drawer to his left. Twenty thousand taka, he counted what was left of his savings. Half of what he owed to loan-sharks. Her meds cost more than ten thousand a month. The one week notice didn’t help.

He turned and looked at her pretty face once more. She was still lying there, peaceful as ever, showing no real sign of life but the slow pulse showing on the heart-rate monitor. In one split moment of desperation, he lunged forward at the lifeless body and grabbed her by the neck. She moved for a bit, her arms threw themselves at him, as if she was trying to escape. But he knew it was just her nerves reacting, trying to fight back. He tightened his grasp until her muscles relaxed and she didn’t struggle anymore. The pulse monitor beeped with one continuous line showing on it’s screen. She didn’t move anymore. He couldn’t look at her, so he quickly escaped into the shower.

…

He glanced at the small spider at the corner of the room, it was busy doing it’s own thing, not giving two fucks about what was going on in the room underneath her. Her face seemed much calmer now. Calmer than it usually did. He gave her a tight hug, almost crushing her in his weary arms. But she didn’t respond, she didn’t push back, her body didn't reciprocate anymore . She was dead. She’d been dead for the last 10 years. But it hadn’t hit him this hard before. And it hurt, like hell. He screamed, he screamed as loudly as he could.

Her body muffled his despair as he held his face in her arms, as tightly as his arms would allow him to. What had he done? How had he done this? Why had he done this?

He couldn’t cry though. He tried as hard as he could, but the tears wouldn’t come out. He felt as if something was ripping out his soul, tearing through it with a butcher knife like some sick medieval torture camp. And that ‘something’ was so fucked up that it wouldn’t let him cry, it wouldn’t let him ease the pain. He wanted to say that he was sorry, he wanted to scream that he loved her. But all he could manage to get through all that hurt was a name. Her name, tearing through his vocal chords,

“Lilaboti”

The Garage

The only light in the room, hanging low like a dilapidated chandelier, illuminated a murky-yellow glow, insufficient to distinguish anything. It swayed in the gentle breeze that seeped in through the small gap of the garage door. It wasn’t that cold, but the man in front of me shivered both inside and out. I don’t blame him. There wasn’t a single soul that didn’t cower from my glare; also, people tend to fear those who tie them to a chair in an unknown garage. His eyes, the only mobile part of his body, scanned the room restlessly, desperate to find a weapon or an escape. Chained like an undomesticated creature, he thrashed about, endeavoring to grasp freedom.

Draped in the shadows of a corner, I observed him with an eerie silence. At first he resisted and opposed the thick straps digging into his reddening flesh. Then, slowly, his fidgeting came to a minimum and turned into a more defensive demeanor. I watched his diaphragm rise and fall as he clenched his fists to keep him from panicking. The piercing red veins in his eyes added a touch of idiosyncrasy. I knew he had reached the peak of paranoia, when even the slightest rustle of leaves made him jerk. The ropes debilitated him completely, draining every bit of sanity left within. It was working – I knew it would.

I took one step out of my concealed corner, my distorted silhouette falling on him. His drooping head suddenly caught sight of it and began to interpret it with squinted eyes. As he deciphered the owner of the shadow, a flash of terror registered on his face – only to be replaced by a placid composure seconds later. I smirked; he thought he could hide it. But I was faster than that. In a slow cat-crawling manner, I came to stand right in front of my prey. The odor of anxiety exuding from his body was indeed delicious. He wouldn’t meet my eyes; and who could blame him? Last time he did that, he found himself unconscious in the back of a truck with no recollection whatsoever. That was how it always went.

I gently tilted his head upwards but his eyes darted away from me. “Well. Are you going to tell me the truth now?” I tenderly stroked his cheek. A shiver of disgust vibrated through him. His lips formed words and chew them back again before finally uttering “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  A smile played on my face, a blend of amusement, annoyance and anger. My voice fell to a seductive whisper “Don’t you, Richard?” His wide eyes flew to meet mine in disbelief. He thought I wouldn’t remember

A Game Of Hearts

/Three hearts, intertwined, connected together, by different lines./

Men were never the innocent type, so it is only by poetic justice that they receive their returns. The world had its own check and balance system, born from the ethereal light of existence only to carry out the poetic justice that men brought down upon them.  Perfection had never seemed so plain yet so captivating. All it took was one glance; a game of hearts they’d call it. They would steal these hearts, one by one, blackened to the core by the dirt of their deeds, yet softened by the touch of love, a love that these angels did not feel. Diligence does not breed perfection, what breeds perfection is the lack of emotion that allows one to be sworn to their duty, emotions which make us human, even with tainted hearts held together by nothing but tar.

But every creation has its faults, like Adam and Eve, who had curiosity. In this game of hearts, a misfit was born, carved from a lesser light. But even in her beige glow she radiated captivity for the soulful hearts of men. But that wasn’t her flaw, her flaw was much more beautiful, less obscene, but one that made her flight vulnerable. The angels never felt affection, they only felt apathy to the pain of men upon their presence, but even men had their exceptions.

/From white to beige, tables turned, in first love, a lesson learned./

Their captivating eyes, their endearing smiles, their soothing voices, all tools to hold the attention of men long enough for the angel’s to plan their escape with the hearts of unsuspecting men. But she was unlike that, and perhaps that was her flaw.
She looked down from Eden, upon the world below, her eyes stuck on one soul. He was no special soul, nothing out of the ordinary. But he had a gift, one he was not willing to give to anybody. He had the gift of his voice, one that was able to enchant her.  A feeling that no one around her could understand, Angels don’t fall in love, but perhaps misfits do.

We value love a lot, and so, it is only fair that that value be respected. The pursuit of love came at a high cost, but it did not bring with it certainty. Certainty, without which, we are grounded, left to read in between the lines until we find our hollow solace, our happiness- void of truth.

She descended, losing her grace, parts of her that made her herself. She only wished to accompany a sinner, something she was not meant to do, to prolong her stay she tore her feathers, damaged -he would soon call her- but beautifully so, for she only wished to bask in his presence, in his blue presence, not one of sadness, but one of intensity, one she had never seen before- but one that had her enthralled. Eden took a different face, one lacking certain perfection yet one that was equally as bewitching.

In chasing things that aren’t ours, we descend from our Eden and somewhere along the way we lose our wings, purposely, to prolong our stay, to look for something- only to realize that it never wanted to be found. It was perhaps, meant to be found, but not by us.

/A bitter truth eroded the soul, the beige angel was never whole./


The game of hearts had been reversed.  It’s true when they say that we lose more than we bargain for when we give all we have in hopes of minor returns, for our happiness ,is a second hand happiness, one depending on the smile of our loved ones; but perhaps we are not that to them.

Her love, was a black rose- rare, unique. But in admiring her rose, she jerked at the stem not noticing its thorn, she pricked herself. She bled, but she did not care, all she wanted was to nurture her rose.

Roses only look nice in their garden. Her rose did too, but she had to pick it up, for love felt like a possession that must be obtained. Cut from its stem, the rose wilted, but she watered it anyway, not noticing the petals giving away.

A love lost, another found, but no heart, to go around

We admire the freedom that birds exercise, a freedom that perhaps we cannot attain, so we cage birds and create a glaring reflection of our own captivity within ourselves. However, it is hard to take in a bird with broken wings and nurture it back to health.

In a heartless world, it is people who have less that give more. Perhaps it is the lack of material in their life that allows them to value the little things.

Deep admiration grew.

Perhaps from a sense of nurturing a wounded bird back to its full glory, to allow it to return back to where it belonged.  It takes a lot to love someone that cannot love themselves because they no longer know who they are, because in their pursuit of what was never theirs they lost too much of themselves.
Lying in a rose bush filled with thorns, the very rose bush of her self-demise, she was found, by one who would walk with her until she didn’t need to walk any longer.

Poetic justice was breathed back to life, the clock of check and balance started ticking again.
Perhaps we aren’t meant to receive the fruits of our love from the tree that we nurture, a tree that only bore rotten fruits. But from those rotten fruits, grows an orchard that returns our love tenfold, in ways that we could not imagine- poetic justice.

He fell in love with her broken voice, her vibrant laughter, her captivating eyes. He noticed how her lips curved and he stared at her beauty, the beauty hidden behind her broken wings. He gawked at her when she spoke, her voice rung in his ears like it was a celestial song, sang only for him. He knew true admiration.

She finally had her love returned to her, only, she had no heart left to bear the weight of his red.

Perhaps, it isn’t hard to nurture a wounded bird back to health, what’s difficult is letting it fly back to the sky where it belongs after you’ve poured all your love in to it. What is hard is the realization of the fact that it was never yours to keep.

Man was never the innocent type, and even in all his love, he was no different.  So, poetic justice?

Drunk

Drunk people are never sad, they say.

True.

Is that why people transform into drunkards or addicts in the first place? Does the alcohol make them feel alive? Does it make them feel happy and active? Or is it just the moment of ironic absolution hidden beneath the thick brown liquid.

Lolita and the band come frolicking around in our minds ever so often. We dissociate ourselves from our cognitive thought when she passes by. The feeling of love, itself is partially a fluke. An overly-influential feeling that often overtakes our  rationale. But even if love is real, some things are absolute truth. We should never fall in love with someone we won’t end up with. As fate decides to wreak turmoil on humane feelings, it’s normal enough for us to at least try subjugate them when they  overtake our minds.

Hello darling,

How are you tonight? How’s life without me, without us? I needed to talk to you about a few things. I needed to ask,

Will I ever be okay when you aren’t around? Will I ever breathe easy when your smell doesn’t surround me? Will I ever think of you without being wrapped in your love?  Will I ever sleep peacefully without you? Your smell in my bed-sheet, your hair on my face and your body in my shirt?

I dreamt about us last night. You were wearing that blue dress of yours you had on the first time I met you. And your hair brushed against my face every time you looked at me. I really can’t go into much detail though. Mostly because I don’t remember much and it gets hard to think after a few shots. Also because I’ve been trying to forget since morning. It didn’t help much though. You wouldn’t leave my brain. So I decided the best way to let something out is to talk to you about it. So, here I am, talking to you ...about how I miss you.

I’ve feared this day, the day I’d get exhausted; of running from you, your love. I’ve tried to muster the strength to finally get used to living without you. But then again you were always an asshole, never letting me have what I wanted. I have become so used to keeping myself distracted from you and not letting all the thoughts that haunt me have a voice that I’ve actually forgotten how it felt not to be busy. I have to hide the ugly inside me. And sadly… I just don’t think I have the strength anymore.

Sometimes, I wish we never met. And then sometimes I wish I would never forget a single moment spent with you. And all I want, even if it’s just for one day, is to be with you, because then I’d know that for a short while, you missed me too. But whatever, I’ll be fine tomorrow anyway. Put on a smile and go to work, like I always do. Maybe take a shower.

You know, I forget to have dinner before I sleep now, almost everyday. I seem to always forget that you aren’t here to remind me. I wake up at 3 am every night expecting to hear you singing some Damien Rice classic. And I can’t sleep after that. Your voice was my lullaby, and now all I hear is the aging ceiling fan shrieking as it turns. I have no one who snuggles up against me when it’s cold or screams out my name when she’s having a nightmare anymore. I miss your warmth against me.

REMINDER: I might need to remove your pillow from the bed. It makes me want to hold you.

I think your smell is starting to disappear from the bedsheets. And it’s driving me crazy. As days go by, they smell more like detergent and less like that lotion you’d put on. Can’t quite remember the name. The one with the white neck. I keep wearing the over-sized t-shirts expecting you to snuggle up inside them with me.  I need a change of wardrobe. All my shirts still smell like you. And they won’t let me concentrate on life.

Maybe someday I will have the guts and the time to look in on you, how you’re doing with your life now. Now is not that time. So instead everything as it is now will be jumbled, not make sense to me. I need to talk to you more often though. It makes me feel relaxed. I’m going to finish that assignment today, if I can. I think I’ve had one too many drinks. I’m pretty sure it’s okay to dream though. I’m exhausted. I miss you. I can’t wait to be with you. I don’t how much longer I can last.
Writing today was a bad idea apparently. Need to remember to tear this out in the morning…

But… not tonight

For the next few hours,

It’s just you and me,

Just the two of us,

Inbetween these pages,

Together,

So cheers darling!

Here’s to tonight!

My head hurts…

When Your Love Leaves

When your love leaves you,
And you cannot deal with it;
And you crumble inside,
With every resonating heart beat.

When you can no longer,
Listen to your favourite song,
Because the sting of the words,
Makes everything feel wrong;
You,
Obsessed over her,
She was your only beautiful obsession;
And you never failed to show her that,
With every articulate poem in succession.

When your love leaves you,
And you do not know why.

When on some days,
She'd just say;
I love you,
And you loved her too.
But something was wrong;
Something FELT wrong,
Her lips no longer curved,
The way they did before,
Her meandering lips were a straight line,
You could no longer obsess over;
The feeling was gone,
From her end,
But she didn't,
Let on.

At least,
Not in her words;
But you felt every flat I love you,
Like a thousand swords,
Piercing through your chest;
Moving right past the heart;
It prolonged the pain,
A swift death was mercy.

The agony of a thousand deaths,
Rushing past you,
Wounding at every step,
You could not bear the sight,
Of your love,
Slipping away,
Slowly,
Then all at once.

When your love leaves you,
The love that was never supposed to go;
You'll turn to doing things differently;
Don't fall asleep sleep watching your favourite show,
That's something she did,
And you want to run away from that,
Every action,
Is like a swinging bat,
A bat representing,
Your swaying heart,
A heart that beats,
A little differently now,
Slow then fast,
Then not at all.

When your love leaves you,
And you're breaking down,
Your world,
Is crumbling all around;
You no longer have the will,
To go do the things you loved,
Because she loved them too,
And she loves them still.

When you loved someone so much,
That you dedicated yourself,
All to them,
Your very existence was a glorified image,
Of their being;
In every poem,
And every paragraph you ever wrote,
You made sure that their presence was known,
In between the lines,
In the most obviously un-obvious places.

When that love leaves you,
And leaves the door open behind her;
Don't sit around and wallow,
Do not trip over your guilt,
Do not swallow;
For love,
Comes when it must,
It leaves,
Exactly when it must;
Love never stays for a while longer;
Even if it's the only love,
That can ever sate your hunger;
Because this love,
Is different,
This love,
Was true,
And just like that,
So will the next be,
And the next,
And the one after that.

When your love leaves you,
And you think you can never love again,
Look back at the times,
Look back at the heart breaks,
And the poems,
Look back and cherish,
The moments,
That love,
Left you with.

1 AM

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid she’s gone.”
My voice broke the eerie silence outside the emergency room. The deceased girl’s family stood still, processing the shock. I watched as the hope drained out of their eyes. Then, the mother clutched her husband and began to sob. I always hated having to deliver this kind of news. It made it look like I had something to do with it. As if I could’ve stopped death. What am I? Jesus?
Unable to bear the sad scenario much longer, I began to make my way back inside the emergency room. A hand caught my wrist just before I stepped inside. It was the newly married husband. “Can I see her? For one last time?” Usually, this would be unacceptable; there were a lot of complexities around these sensitive issues. Something about his eyes made me change my mind; maybe it was the desperate urgency or even the everlasting melancholy. When the others seemed busy mourning for the loss, I snuck him inside. There, in the only bed in the room, lay the shape of a body enveloped in white sheets. I sensed the husband tense up, trying to control his out bursting emotions by clenching his fists. He was probably the type that thought boys can’t cry. Typical. He slowly took some steps towards his wife; I even let him peel the white sheet. His wife had died an unusual death – no symptoms of any sort of disease identified, no inherited illnesses, nothing. Yet, she claimed to be in excruciating pain throughout the past few days. Her heart rate had been fluctuating at dangerous levels during her last minutes. The husband gazed at his lost treasure and took her cold and lifeless hand in his. I saw him slip a sharp crystal ring on her 4th finger. “I want this to stay with her” He whispered. I nodded. It seemed like the only thing that would make him better – and me less uncomfortable.
The girl’s body was scheduled for removal at 1 am that night. I was fortunate enough to have been selected for the tedious task – because who wouldn’t want to package dead bodies and send ‘em off, right? One thing that had intrigued me was the mystery behind her demise. Her family hadn’t asked any questions about it; either they were too shocked or they already knew the answers. The entire time I had engrossed myself in different books, endeavoring to reach some logical conclusion. The last thing I was going to believe in was that “Jinn e dhorse” rhetoric. Pathetic.
When the nurse came in at 12:40 am, I remembered I had an unfinished job to take care of. Reluctantly, I abandoned my research and took hold of the coffin she had brought in. I caught a quick glimpse at the nurse but didn’t find her name in the ID card – must be a new recruit. Why do I always get handed with the amateurs? Seemed like she was either squeamish or very conservative, judging by the way she had covered herself head to toe in the white uniform. I gave her a series of instructions to carry out, starting by supplying me with the essentials. She was silent but efficient. As she handed me the key to the coffin, something sharp grazed my skin, making a small cut. It was more of a paper cut so it didn’t hurt. But what did sting was when the nurse tenderly touched the wound with her abnormally cold hands. I jerked back in surprise and that’s when I spotted the shining object on her 4th finger. A crystal ring. The crystal ring.  

~ Noyolee

Depression

You,
Are not depressed,
You're just sad,
When this,
Is what the world tells you,
You start to believe that.

Other people,
Have it worse,
But tragedy isn't a race,
No one's trying to come first.

Come on,
Cheer up,
Don't be a spoil sport,
You're used to hearing this,
You're used to the retort.

But what you often don't hear,
Is what you should be hearing,
I understand what you're going through,
I empathise with the feeling.

See,
You're not just thinking about yourself,
When you're depressed;
Your whole world is crumbling down upon you,
It's a mountain of stress.

You're making a mountain out of a mole hill,
This is nothing, they'd say;
But nobody understands,
That you're having a rough day.

No one wants to listen,
How your step daddy abused you last night,
You live in a house of hate,
No one wants to listen how you were raped,
How your own fucking uncle scarred you,
When you were eight.

Depression isn't about sadness,
No these things don't just make you sad,
It's bad,
I know,
You think about it all the time,
You think until you can't think,
Anymore.

At one point,
You can't take it,
The laughing world,
Leaves you vacant.

You get used to it,
Mommy and daddy fighting;
That's how they show love to each other,
Even if it's a bit frightening,
At least that's what you,
So that you don't weep;
When they're too busy,
To sing you to sleep.

You're used to the world,
Denying depression,
It's the same fucking words,
A useless procession,
It's all in your head,
Don't cry,
Just go to bed,
Sleep on it,
You'll be alright,
Sleeping makes it better,
Trust me,
Goodnight.

So one day,
You start to believe that,
Perhaps sleep is the answer,
On your table you sat;
You wrote on a page,
A diary of sorts,
I am tired of it all,
I'm tired of the retorts;
And then you take the advice,
You decide to sleep,
You go to bed
And you let the world weep..

To the love that never was

I’ve always had trouble finding the right words to start a story. Well, given the fact that this really is a story that is. I don’t actually know what this is. A rant, a catalogue, an open letter ……a confession?

Love has always been a distant term for me. Something only true in romantic comedies and Nicholas Sparks' novels. An epiphany of a distant charm that one can only see and admire. And maybe sometimes dream about.

Of course, I believe in love. Love in all it’s glory and beauty. I believe in that overwhelming kind of love. That out of this world and “you can not believe it until you’ve seen it” kind of love. The kind of love that engulfs you to the core as it explodes like a volcano at times and slowly consumes you, simmers down through your dress and into your heart. The kind of love poets and writers screech their hearts out about.

And yes, I do believe it’s a very beautiful thing. I do believe love deserves to be glorified. That love can conquer all and patch all rifts and boundaries between two humans. I do believe that love can bring any two people closer if it’s strong enough. I believe in being consumed by love, being destroyed by love, dying for love and of course living for love.

I believe it because I’ve seen it, because I’ve felt it, because I’ve lived it.

I believe in love because one fine winter morning, someone made me believe that angels were real, that butterflies can nest inside your stomach, that you can yearn so much for someone’s touch, that you can die so many times for someone’s smile.

I believe in God for no artist on this planet is creative enough to imagine the beauty that you are and you always will be. That no poet is talented enough to pen down the poem that you are. That no musician is brilliant enough to compose the notes that are; you. That there must be some other entity so pleased with me or something I’ve done that he granted me an audience of your existence.

I believe that love is unconditional because for the first time in my life, I thought about conquering something. The massive worldly divide that has separated us. I believe in unconditional love for I have dreamt of you even on my worst nights knowing full and well that the wall inbetween us is mammoth and that I most probably could never climb it.

I believe in loving from afar for I’ve loved you from the other side of this wall for millennials and will always probably have a little room stored away for you at a corner of my heart, however far this world puts us. I believe in loving from a distance for I always knew you could never be mine and yet I have travelled worlds to listen to your voice.

And although you’re not here right now, although you choose to shelter someone else in your heart now, I do not regret you.

I do not regret trying to conquer entire worlds for you. I do not regret climbing mountains or crossing windy seas just to see a hint of smile on your face. I do not regret loving you with all I had and all I will ever have.

Truth be told, I’m grateful to God. I’m grateful to Him for He gave me you. Even if you’re not mine, even if He did not let you be mine, He gave me the privilege of being in love with you. He gave me the privilege of seeing you smile as the world around you blossom with you. He gave me the privilege of witnessing the meaning of true beauty in you.

And although you’ll never know how I feel for you, how I'd die for you or more importantly, how I’d live for you,.. I’ll keep looking for a hint of love in your smile, hidden beneath your blush, trying to fight it’s way out.

Thank you, for making me believe, for making me conquer, for making it true. Thank you, for smiling at me, for nodding at my existence, for brushing my hand as you laugh at my desperate jokes.

Thank you, for being the lone star in my sky that I aspire to touch. Thank you for making your smile my trophy and your touch my paradise. Thank you for being what you are to me, for living in my dreams.

Thank you, for being real.

So here’s to you.
The love that never was.
You know who you are…

Cheers.

You Give Me Flowers

Red and blue,
Planting desire;
Heart of flame,
Passion's fire;
Blooming flowers,
Empty vase;
Love's touch,
The heart elates.

The heart is empty,
Has always been,
Loveless life,
Unlike ever seen.

Every sight,
Instills with pleasure;
Scoured the seas,
For sunken treasure.

Lost treasure,
But found again;
The empty mind,
Had found a pen;
Written words,
And spoken rhymes;
Locked away,
And lost in time.

Sewn again,
The seeds of love;
When she came,
From Eden above;
She took the vase,
And she took the heart;
The loveless soul,
No longer apart.

Spring blossom,
Empty vase;
Love filled,
The heart uncaged.

No butterflies,
This time around;
The heart played,
A different sound;
Birds chirped,
And bees hummed;
Love sprout,
From red and blue.

Love's touch,
Had done it's work,
A desolate soul,
Had found its worth;
The sands of time,
Had never seen;
The heart extend,
It's veins in green;
She did her work,
An Angel as such;
She gave his heart,
A flower's touch.

Belated

“What do you want to do with your life?”, he asked her

as he took sip from the coffee mug in front of him.

She didn’t look up. She’d already ruined the cool love sign the barista had designed on top of her latte, but she kept stirring anyway. She knew the answer to his question. She’d rehearsed it a thousand times before.

“Well I have a degree in sociology and my mother made me take a few cooking classes last semester before I...”

“Naa naa not that.I meant what do you want to become?”

“I don’t get you.”, she was genuinely confused about his question. She looked up to him for the first time since they got together.
He was a handsome man. Five foot ten, larger than normal. Not the standing out of the crowd type, but definitely above average. But he had a sense of genuinity in his eyes. Something that made him stand out from the other men she’d met over the last few months.

This man was to become her husband in two weeks. Her mother had hand-picked him from a pool of ten candidates. She didn’t have a sayin it. She just had to meet all of them one by one.
She didn’t hate her mother’s choice though. He had a stable job and he looked like he was a decent guy. That’s more than you can ask for anymore.
“I’m asking you what YOU want from life? What does Miss Aonkita want to become?”, he snapped his fingers trying to make a point.

“Oh…”
She sat there, frozen and trying to think about how to answer that question. He wasn’t supposed to ask her this. Her mother gave her a list of questions and answers she had to parrot in front of him. She didn’t want to risk upsetting the boy’s side with stupid answers. This wasn’t on the list. She didn’t know how her maa would want her to answer in this situation. She didn’t know how she wanted to answer him.

She was a topper college. Top 5% in her class. She achieved everything she could’ve by the age of 18. Won a couple of Olympiads here and there. A spitball of fire she was. You could keep asking her questions about all day about absolutely anything and you couldn’t stop her.  

And yet there she was, sitting in front of her partner to-be for the rest of her life, and she didn’t know the answer to the most basic question of them all. What did she want to do with her life? What did she want to become? She didn’t know, she never thought of it.

All she knew growing up was that her parents had some expectations. And it was her duty to fulfill those expectations.

Get 90 percent in exams.
Done.
Get into a public university.
Done.
Get engaged to the man your parents choose for you.
Done.

Fulfill your dreams.
Not done.

Well… she could still fulfill her dreams if she wanted to, right? Right?
But what were her dreams? What and where did she want to be? Where did she forget what she really wanted to do with life?

She remembers everything faintly now. She remembers finger painting on her bedroom wall when she was 6. The colors made her go crazy every time they touched her fingers. She remembers loosing herself in the colors. She remembers her art teacher’s eyes widening in awe every time he saw a painting she made.

She remembers telling her maa that she wanted to draw for the rest of her life. She remembers her mother’s face turning dark every time she said it. She remembers her dad ignoring her, scoffing at her every time she asked him if she could study art at college. She remembers picking sociology because it’s the only subject her maa would let her take without flipping out.

But when did she stop looking for a way? What did she stand for if not an aspiring artist? A college graduate? A soon to-be housewife? What is she anymore?

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know anymore. And as she desperately tried to figure it out, a speck of saltwater ran down her soft cheeks into the cup of coffee. What did she want from life?

“Aonkita? Are you okay? Do you want me to drop you home?”, he broke her trance. He had seen her crying.

“No no I’m fine.”, she said as she wiped her face.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, absolutely”, she cleared her throat, “Okay, I know.”

“What do you know?”, he looked a bit confused now.

“I know what I want from my life.”

“Okay tell me.”, a look of genuine curiosity ran through his face. Something she hadn’t seen in the other guys her mom made her meet.

“For starters, I don’t want to marry you right now. No don’t get me wrong Anondo. I feel like you’re a genuinely interesting guy and any girl would be lucky to have you in their lives. But I think I’ve left a lot of leaves unturned to be moving on just yet”, she caught her breath. “And I think it’s time for me to turn those leaves. I don’t want to be a house-wife Anondo. I never did. I’m sorry that I made you believe I did”

She finally looked up to him. A hint of a smile ran through his face. He didn’t seem too worried. Maybe he wasn’t. He’s a decent enough guy. He’ll find someone new when he wants to.

“So where are you going?” he smirked.

“I don’t know just yet. I’m going to try and figure out.”, she said as she scourged her bag for her purse.

“I’m sorry I’ll have to rush but I have to go now.”, she said as she picked up her bag. “Oh and thanks for the coffee. I hope we meet again someday.”

She rushed out of the café. All the women were at the mall picking out sharees for the wedding, and her dad was having lunch somewhere with Anondo’s parents. She had to rush home while she had the chance.

She’d never felt happier as she packed her diary into the travel bag. She had taken out all her savings from the bank. She’d packed just enough clothes into her bag to keep her going for a couple of days. She packed some food for the road and a book to keep herself occupied. She completed a note as she packed one last bottle of maa’s achaar into her bag.

‘ Dear maa,
I’m really sorry I have to do this. I know you’re super excited about the wedding and I know you’d make me a beautiful bride. But maa I’m not ready to marry, not just yet. I want to work maa, I want to paint. I don’t know what I want to work for. But I want to work. I know this is very rushed but it’s better late than never, right maa?

I know you’ll understand. Handle dad for me will you? You know he’s a helpless little child without me. Keep his glasses on the dressing table. It’s the only place he looks for it. And take your pills on time. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.
-Your Aonki’

She left the note under her keys on the dining table. And as she got on the 5 o’ clock bus, she felt something she’d never felt before.  She felt free. And freedom tasted sweet. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know what she wanted to do. But she was going to find out.