Numbers

Slowly but surely the numbers come back to me and with the digits the realization that makes me simultaneously laugh and sadly sigh; that something that I should be trying to forget for years is the one thing coming into view through the frittering haze of inordinate drinks. I glance towards my phone and find twelve scattered cracks gazing from the useless screen back at me. The vista in front is still skimpily covered with darkness and through it comes the moans of the sea as the waves wet the shore with lingering caresses, eternally reluctant to let go; much like my absolutely lonesome heart on a beach barren of another waking soul.

Lonesome and also, I must say, craving for a long unheard voice. There must be something stirring in my soul that I feel plethora of memories rising up through a depression in my chest and watering my eyes. I shrug it off and shrug it off again, until nostalgia overcomes me and I find droplets falling upon my palm on which I rest my face.

“Hey”, I hear her jarring voice and feel the gentle shift in the aura around me; the slightest of touch upon me so starkly reminiscent, so beautifully aching. The breeze from the sea must be cold and that makes her hug herself.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

“About two years”, I say.

“No exact number of days this time?” she chuckles.

“I figured the setting was dramatic enough”. That makes her laugh softly and the sound of it pours through my ears and reawakens the forgotten slumber of remembrances. Her arm slips through mine and the inevitable scent of her hair perfumes every particle of my being.

“We should have come to sea once”, the thought emerges from my throat.

“We should have done many things”

I tremble at the stabs of time and find the staggering pace at which it moved desperately cruel. The first lights of the morning have begun to pierce through and the silhouette of the horizon moves in illusions towards the depths of the ocean.  I take a deep breath of the rusting wind and look around at the emptiness that makes me ache and blissful at the same time. Perhaps, melancholy is the poetic lover of solitude.

“Are you alright”, she asks

“I miss you”, I say.

“I understand”

“I miss you, truly and absolutely. Like the first time I felt my heart break.”

She sighs and places her head upon my shoulder. I shiver and let the remembrances of her gentle pressure against me wound me. I don’t know whether love is as abstract as a silhouette of a woman’s body against the nebulous darkness of a room or something as tangible as all the beauty of the world flowing underneath my skin.

“I am at all the places you lost me”, she says. “Won’t you come get me?”  The sound of her voice mingles with the coveting music of the ocean and as the sky above lightens up with the faint glow of vicinal yearnings, I feel her dissolving in me, bit by bit, until all that is left is a mist in front of my eyes and the fragrance of all the days and nights spent in writing verses on body and soul.

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The beautiful things.

I stand at the door with my hand on the cold knob and close my eyes before giving in to that slight turn. The floor beneath my feet is cloaked in invisibility, all I see is a table with two chairs facing each other set alongside an open window. The afternoon comes pouring in and drenches the table with light.
I walk the paces and look outside sitting on the chair. There’s a huge tree not too far away and a few blue flowers shine intermittently from between the leafy branches. Those flowers hold every particle of my being and if it were not for that scent I could recognize in a room full of fragrances I never would have realized when she came and took her place across me. Something stops me from looking at her right away. My eyes linger over the sunlight, the windowsill and then I look at her. My chest has been hollow for long, so long that I can’t recognize the feeling of my heart thumping mightily at the sight of her hair cascading down the sides of her face and I feel the texture on my fingertips when she tucks a vagabond strand behind her right ear. The tiny earring glints and her eyes reflect a longing I never knew existed when she looks at me.
“How long has it been?”, she asks.
“A lifetime”, I answer.
She blinks with a smile on her lips and then places her hands on the table. She looks at the light flowing over her fingers and something warm conceives in my heart.
” Would you believe it if I told you that I have missed you? “, she says looking back at me.
“No”, I say.
She tilts her head back a little and moves her hair over on her right shoulder, leaving her neck bare as a starless sky and all my forgotten desires drip down that path of skin into the furrow of her collarbone.
” What are you thinking?”
“You can’t imagine”, I say without realizing.
She stretches her hand and places it over mine. I clasp it and wonder just how much a heart can break. Somewhere far away, it must be raining.
” Did you ever regret it? Falling in love? “
” No”, I mumble, “Did you?”
“We wouldn’t be here if I did”, she sighs.
I look to my right and see nothing, I look to my left and see the blue flowers hiding behind leaves, I look at her and realize she’s a thousand miles away.
” Is this even real?”, I wonder.
She stays silent for a while and I crave for that empty space between her slightly parted lips.
“All that matters is that we’re here, in this transitory place that changes shapes with the whims of my heart. This is the only place left where I can come to remember”, she finally answers.
She stands and walks up to me, I turn my chair to face her. She clasps the edges of her dress with two fingers and the hem lifts a few inches. The ragged beating of my heart drops a few flowers on the ground and her breath on my face ignites the debris of love as she places herself on my lap and I feel her thighs pressing against mine.
” Did you miss me?”, she breaths on my lips.
Time stops hovering around us and moments freeze in the air. There’s no clock that exists and all the waters of all the oceans are forever bathing in moonlight. She takes my hand and places it between her breasts. Her lips twitch and a pain of years ago escapes from the corners of her eyes.
“Why is my heart beating so fast?”, she asks in a broken voice and the sound hits me after a slight lapse, like in a conversion over a satellite phone.
“How could I ever forget you?”, I whisper and find the taste of her mouth stained with the traces of love.
” Then don’t “, she says. “Always remember. Remember that we loved once, no matter how we ended, love didn’t. Love never does, memories never do, yearnings never will.”
She stands and looks outside the window. Perhaps the light outside has gone awry but her body appears blurry on the edges. It reminds me of gazing at the night sky with eyes full of tears.
“Never forget the beautiful things”, she says and fades away into nothingness, leaving behind a damp warmth in my chest and an exploding supernova in my veins.

The man suffering from nostalgia

The twilight gleamed in a color of melancholy outside the cottage. The man suffering from nostalgia looked straight ahead at the expanse of the Andaman Sea and the flock of birds flitting across the faint blue sky, like so many tiny black spots. The almond tree that he had planted within a few days of arriving on the island was now over twenty feet tall, spreading its strong branches as a canopy of leaves that billowed in the wind like a maiden’s skirt. He sat on the wicker chair on the porch and for a long time kept gazing at the sea with the violin tucked between his knees. After a while the wind picked up speed and the waves began crashing on the shore in a louder voice, as though craving to break the man from his reverie. But on he looked, his gaze fixed at a spot in space but in his blurry field of vision everything encompassed. The last remnants of the sun as it dipped into the waters and the entire horizon that gradually turned from blue to a mystic grey; a magical entrance from this world to the other. Everything around was being eaten by shadows, and the man suffering from nostalgia with motions that hardly seemed to require any effort began to play his violin.

He closed his eyes and out came pouring a song that flowed straight from the ragged beatings of his heart to his fingertips. As the darkness grew heavier, the tunes pierced the now still air and carried with them the heartbroken yearnings all the way to the cottage where lived the witch named Misha. She was just about to slice the throat of a rooster when she heard the music and then she chuckled. She too closed her eyes and her fingers danced in the air like those of the conductor of a great orchestra. The leaves of the almond tree swayed for a while and as the man suffering from nostalgia kept playing his violin, the leaves soon began to turn orange and yellow and blue and for this night they settled on the color mauve, that cast an otherworldly glow around the tree. When the man stopped playing, he smiled looking at the leaves for he knew that mauve was the color that the witch named Misha would be wearing for him tonight.

Forever and a day more

Just like the sea our consciousness is a million fathoms deep and mostly we remain complacent floating on the surface, unaware of the treasures that maybe hidden deep under. The treasures and also the abandoned chaos that we better have been not aware of and when this chaos tries to engulf the entire self clawing on the skin from the insides, we crave for some semblance of clarity to take us back to that state of utter placidness; those agents of relief, like a beautiful day when you can’t help but remain enchanted with Nature in all her glorious nudity and tell all the worries of the world: not today. With the evening the sea breeze carries tunes to fill you up with salty remembrances and suddenly a forgotten song evokes the face of the beloved.  And along the parched shore you walk, watching the sea making a run for the sun crumbling into that orange light scattered over the horizon. As the night approaches all your distant longings are washed over the white sand of the beach in a collective sigh of the ocean roaring in the reign of the lonesome queen shining more clearly than ever in the night sky. Under the silver gleam lighting up the pathways this realization dawns upon the self that it is love that matters, love that lights up the darkness within, love that is more beloved than the once beloved herself. Love in the form of poetry and prose that binds us to this limitless cosmos, forever…forever and a day more.

Abandoned chaos

Just like the sea our consciousness is a million fathoms deep and also in the same way home to abandoned chaos which swells onto the surface in the form of terrific waves or as was on this sultry September night in the form of untamed desire as Calvin looked outside his window waiting for the doorbell to ring. Outside the sky was home to immutable stars and the room faintly smelled of the joint he had just put out in the ash tray, he glanced once at the city floating in front of him in the sea of glimmering lights, playing halfhearted battles with the memories rushing inside into the vacuum that he needed to fill. Half an hour later as he sat on the couch pouring a drink for himself and the girl who had walked into his night smiling the smile of one accustomed to the turbulent desires that seek prey upon the few souls wrestling with the disease of nostalgia.

“I see that thing in your eyes again”, Vina softly spoke curling a finger over the strand of her hair that had given up the effort to not linger over the smoothness of her cheek and as she sipped the whisky her whirling head wondered how to abandon herself, in body and soul, so as to soothe the burning flesh of the man sitting next to her and then she in familiar movements unbuttoned the first few buttons of her shirt. Calvin chuckled as he looked at her lips curved into that smile he had missed feverishly and her eyes so vacant that he deemed only fit to fall into that abyss.

“That thing that makes me keep coming here all over again”, Vina said moving her hands over his chest and clutching at the beatings of his mad heart and then giving up any veneer of pretense, kissed him to sing a pean to the inhibitions that burned to death inside her body. In the minutes passing in the taste of lipstick and whisky Calvin took off her shirt and got rid of the hindrance of the straps to uncover the sights he had thought about covering with his lips to write a requiem to the specter of the past clinging to his being. As she moaned and arched her back feeling his tongue tracing patterns over the desires bursting forth through her body, Vina kissed his neck and her fingers meandered down his body to claim that what she had gotten the habit of.  The reality passing her way down kissing and licking every inch of his body in the form of the nymph he had for a long time only been able to conjure up in his days spent inhaling the scent of the yellowish pages only felt like tumbling down from a cloud into the never ending chasms of limbo, but he had long surrendered to the warmth of her mouth as she caressed with her tongue his stoic soul in all its glorious hardness. In this otherness that seeped inside his body in the pale light of the lamps and the poems of Pink Floyd humming from the speakers Calvin stroked her hair and in spasms of pent up longings exhaled that long sigh that only Vina was wont to hear.

Fellow readers and bloggers, please do leave your thoughts behind.

At the stars (throwback from the sea)

All that is around: music and the words

and the waves as they break upon the hull.

I am floating with the stars, on a quest to touch the moon

Sometimes the wind hurts my eyes and forever comes too soon.

 

The days are fine and nights beautiful as they get

Wind gets warm but still cold I sweat.

Wandering on the precipice, wondering where you are

And if differently we lived if we looked more at the stars.

 

Sometimes the words don’t come and sometimes they flow in a gush

Why do we keep running, what is the rush?

 

The surface is calm but the insides are in turbulence.

Still collecting the pieces in the aftermath of the storm,

Somethings don’t let go of us

For a part of us they form.

At the crossroads

Then my heart ripped open and memories fell in
to eventually pour out in verses
About things and
how it could have been.
Or was, but slipped through our fingers
and left the dry echoes to linger.
Or we threw it away, caught
in the life, to metamorphose
and be more accepted.
And so we went at the crossroads.
With a last few traces
on the pages
to dissemble in tiny multitudes.

The bleeding Dahlia

Soft, sweet and blossoming

O you flower of March

Oft you announce the coming

Of winds that make the ‘lyptus arch

 

These days your reflection

Sits on the ground, gazing

At you and the sky above.

That girl, taking turns, now on

The petals, now the blue of love.

 

This evening she carries within her

The yearnings of broken self

For a touch to last a lifetime

But the sun should sometime set.

 

The sky at the edges fraying

The imam in his piety praying

She hugs herself, a trembling flower.

The love metaphor: fated to wither.

 

The faint smell of blossoms

That balm on her chest

For the heart underneath

Broken, but the spirit unbent.

 

Where you had to leave, my love

To be so far to not see this:

When the girl you did so lovingly kiss

She muses, resembles a dismal dove.

 

When my body burns in the fire of love

And your memories play those sadistic tricks

When the days are spent in longings

And in the nights, the thorns on my bed I pick.

 

How I wish you would be here

Still to hold me in embrace

Look, the wind has settled down

Maybe today it shall rain.

 

And then she settles on her feet

The first drop on her upturned palms

A smile on her face

Her love leaves no qualms.

 

But one thing must be done:

She caresses the flower,

Standing under the providential shower.

The rain seeps between her body and clothes, she shivers

Then plucks the flower and crushes the love metaphor.

She plunges into the ocean of melancholia

And in her hand bleeds  the Dahlia.

 

The word forever

I look at her sitting across

A strand of hair in her finger she swirls

“Now that we are here”, she says

“What do you expect to unfurl?”

 

Should I try to take you back in time

And surrender my body and soul.

Or should I stand my ground and again

Say that what makes you think me cold.

 

Or could we not just stay silent

Under the blanket of stars.

And let the memories play,

In our hearts, different songs.

 

Our time was good but now

It has come to pass.

Torementor? You may put me in the class.

Remember the nights spent in love fever?

Never then did I conjure up the word forever.