Restless Thoughts

I shall fold up my soul


And hand it to you,


For I trust you to take it


And teach me to be true.






And when is it ever time, really?


When is it okay to leave?


When is there love ever to spare?


When is it fair to believe?






That endless blue sky struggles,


Through the grey it breaks away.


But will my particular infinity


Be what you need today?






And the sun rests behind


The silhouettes dark;


Brilliantly bright, self-consciously white,


Impatient for darkness to alight.


And the birds fly around


The silhouettes dark;


Swiftly along, their hearts still strong,


Many a broken wing in the throng.






And the beast was always


Within. And it's shape was always


Yours. And all I am is you,


And all your suffering is true.

Dragonfly Wings

Vaguely she remembered his face.

His beautiful, chiseled face. His piercing eyes, twinkling like the stars. The smile-lines etched around his mouth. The shadow of a smile. It haunted her. He haunted her, and didn't he know it, the bastard. She stared at her spaghetti. It stared back at her. She twisted her fork around in it until there was enough of the raw-tasting noodles on the fork to make for a substantial bite. Then she brought it to her mouth and carefully enveloped the bunch of stringy noodles in her lipsticked lips, resting the fork back in the bowl.

She was a broken woman. He was an angry man. But it wasn't always like that, she told herself. She remembered the first time she noticed him. It wasn't the first time she met him, they were neighbors. But she never saw him before then, never really looked. It was in the supermarket, when she wore white clothes and lived in a run-down studio apartment, teaching yoga to a class of fourteen women and a cat. She was buying microwave popcorn, he was buying a blue-boxed bran-based cereal. She crashed into him, her long embroidered white skirt getting caught on his pointy black shoe, and they fell on to the shiny-plastic orange tiles in a pile. She laughed and apologized, and he watched her. They tried to get up together, and she hit her head on his elbow, and she fell to the floor again in a giggling heap, clutching her microwave popcorn to her chest. He held on to the rack on which there sat miles upon miles of super-soaking, rash-preventing, brightly colored diaper packets, and hauled himself up. He held out a hand, but noticed her holding on to her packets of popcorn, one in each hand (and one on the floor).

She felt a familiar tingle at the nape of her neck as she watched her spaghetti. He had leaned down, held her gently by the waist as if she were a were a fragile object, pristine but breakable, and picked her up. They didn't move for a while. She could feel his hands now, holding her gently, she could hear him breathing into her ear. Her hands shook as she pushed back her chair, her lower lip trembled as she put the half eaten spaghetti in the rusted sink. She tried to walk fast, move fast, think fast, and it frustrated her that she couldn't.

He was just a man. She had been with so many men. She had been with complete monsters, and they didn't scar her for life; she had been with angels, and she barely remembered them. But it was different with him. With him, it was meant to be. She felt it in her fingers when he held her hand. She felt it when she traced patterns (the leaf-like veins that you see on a dragonfly wing) on his untrimmed chest. She felt it in her lips when he kissed her. It was the kind of feeling that doesn't go away, the kind of throbbing inside you that floats along with you no matter where you try to go. She couldn't be without him, and he couldn't be without her, but it couldn't go on. They hurt each other. So he left, she reasoned. I know it was the right thing to do. I would have left sooner or later. This high-ceilinged apartment that was too big for one person, and too small for two.

It was a mature relationship.

Maybe those just aren't for me, she told the sink quietly. She eased herself down to the floor, and held her legs tightly to her chest, as if afraid they might try to escape. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Maybe I ask for intimacy but I can't really handle it. Maybe I was too immature for a relationship like that. But he was too. She remembered the forts they built out of pillows on the ridiculously large bed. How they walked next to the ocean and went into the water every single time they were there, no matter what clothes they were wearing, or what the weather was like, or where they had to go. She forced a smile out of herself remembering how they jigged in fancy restaurants and hid under the table if they encountered people they knew.

They were good together. Outside, in the real world, they needed each other to function. To eat with the right spoon and not make terrible a faux pas around his boss, he needed her. She couldn't cross a road. He couldn't buy condoms without going a delicate shade of pink and stuttering. She couldn't decide what cocktail to order in nightclubs, and she always hated whatever she chose. But when they were alone, they were quieter. They made more mistakes, and accepted them less. When they were alone, they cuddled, they kissed and they touched, they occupied little space together and told each other everything, everything that they could think of. They wiped each others' tears, and they made each other cry. He knew exactly where it hurt, and he drove the point home. She retaliated, silently but violently. She screamed. He muffled his own tears into a pillow. But he never lay a hand on her, never hurt her physically. She appreciated that. Still, she whispered into her knees. It had to end, she stressed. It couldn't possibly go on like that. It was killing me, she murmured, and her knees understood. They sympathized. She stood up, encouraged, and decided to wash her immaculately clean hands again.

Everything was slow. The water in the tap was slower than usual. The window behind the sink was grimy, and the single fly that rested on the ledge was slow. Too slow. Was it dead? She wondered if she should touch it. She decided against it, and put out a single finger, the nail bitten down brutally, to touch it. It buzzed with a start and fluttered around her head, confused. It upset her. I'm sorry, she said loudly to the fly. I'm sorry! She told it angrily, and walked out of the gloomy kitchen and dining area to her bedroom, a mere six steps away. She didn't bother to change out of her simple gray shirt, much too big for her now. She simply stepped out of the shabby pants she had been wearing for two days, and daintily stepped into her unmade bed. She stared at the beautiful painting of a dragonfly on the wall in front of her. She traced the intricate patterns she saw on the wings on her arm. It tickled her. She imagined drawing those patterns on his arm instead of her own. On his untrimmed chest. On his stubbly face. His regal neck. On his large feet. She loved him, but she had let him go. Honest to god, she had. As long as letting go could encompass dreaming of tracing dragonfly-wing tattoos on his awkwardly manly body.

She lay there, on the ridiculously large bed in the high-ceilinged apartment too big for a single person (but too small for two), and looked out of the grimy bedroom window. She looked for a long time. Eventually the stars came out, and one of them moved very fast. A shooting star! Her ends of her lipsticked lips curled up in the shadow of a smile. They had always wished on shooting stars. It was their thing. So she closed her eyes, and wished to herself that she could stop loving him, but wished to the star that he was thinking of her. She didn't want much, see.

Somewhere not too far away, a young man stopped his car on the side of a bustling, well-lit street. He had seen the shooting star too. He looked at the reddened skin on his wrist, gently touching a fairly recent tattoo, black upon his olive skin. A large dragonfly, with the most exquisite wings sat upon his hand. His cynical-looking eyes softened up for a minute. His trembling mouth curled up, a perfect match, the shadow of a smile that had been there often. He shut his eyes as the shooting star disappeared into the black folds of the night, and wished that she was thinking of him.

Moths

Small lies said in big words,

With a little quiver, a little jerk.

You always seem to be looking down,

It's like you've lost your quirk.

A certain emptiness of the eyes,

A certain hunch in your pretty back.

A pause when there is none required,

You talk with a little too much tact.

What's wrong, old friend?

Why won't you say?

Do you tell anybody?

Do you ever pray?

Your hair is immaculate,
Your glasses are clean;
But behind them your eyes
Seem to have lost their sheen.

Was it something I did?
Did I say something wrong?
Are you going to turn your head
From me all evening long?

The moths flit towards the light,
But you seem to shy away from it.
I lean towards you and touch you,
You seem to have your teeth grit.

Where's the sunshine? Where, I say?
Where's the bubbly parts of you?
Why won't you let me help, honey?
Are you lost, or have you just grew?

I feel like a stranger next to a friend,
This doesn't feel right, this isn't right.
Why have you given up? I sigh and look up,
In the gloom, the moths seem unnaturally bright.

Blinded

I realize and analyze, I just can't categorize,

Still, this inspiration is what I really prize.

Sometimes, I want to throw it all to the sky,

I'll give up and sit back, I won't explain why.

There's something new in the air today,

There's some sunshine in this winter day.

There's still some hope left in this cynic, it seems,

They're not getting bigger, just closer- my dreams.

Every day is different, every moment is a change,

But it's time to cherish all that seems so strange;

Do what you want to and stop holding back,

Walk away from the worn and battered track.

There's nothing like ever being truly free,

This earth and it's people, to me, are a mystery.

Bask in the joy of not knowing, but only if

The secrets excite you, and you're scared stiff.

Don't live in ignorance, don't live by common word,

There'll always be more to life than you're seen or heard.

Don't believe what they say, don't rebel for no cause,

If you're a radical, learn to live by your own laws.

There's so much in my gray matter, I'm in awe, I'm afraid,

But let every man know, I don't regret having stayed.

The intricacies of human nature often blind me,

My preconceptions and illusions often bind me.

Blinded and bound, I can't see all that I want,

Ignorance is bliss, but these cries will always haunt.

Back on Track

I'm a little hypocritical,

A little insane, sometimes tough.

I either talk too much, too loud,

Or else I don't say quite enough.

Arrogance or pride?

There's a very fine line.

I've never learnt to skip over it,

I get lost easy, time after time.

I need to get back on track,

it's just something I need to do.

I try to keep my verse short and crisp,

But I trip over the laces of my very own shoe.

I don't know what I want to say,

But I want to say it eloquently.

I should take it step by step,

Instead of killing myself gently.

I need to get back on track,

Do some searching of the made-up soul.

I'm just a sum of my individual peculiarities,

I'm just another seeker, yet another fool.

I don't trust the world one bit,

But I trust it'll all work out just fine.

Without the bright lights, the sweating,

On my own, I'll manage to shine.

I'm not right, I know it,

But a child can dream, can't she?

Today I'm answerable, I'm here,

Tomorrow I'll be gone, I'll be free.

Nothing happens of its own accord,

But there's the catch; some things do.

I believed it was either black or white,

Now I see there's no lies, and nothing true.

I need to get back on track,

And I swear I know I should.

If I knew where that track was,

I'd get back there, I would.

Glass Half Full

I look carefully, just like you,

But I don't see what you say you do.

You tell me the glass is so full,

You say it's more than enough.

Why can't I see the same?

Why is it so tough?

All I see is the emptiness,

I see what could have been.

You shrug at me, you say,

I'll see what you have seen.

Time goes by and seasons pass,

Our previous meeting was not our last.

Life's been good, say I to you,

You've changed, I see, so have I.

I tell you to see the beauty,

But you don't look me in the eye.

I can see the beauty in the glass half full,

I don't see the emptiness of that day.

You sigh and ask why it's so empty,

I smile, tell you you'll see again,

Someday.

Free Falling

This obsession,

depression,

free falling in my tummy-

they call it love.

Absolution,

procrastination,

I can't decide whether to cry or laugh.

Are you for real?

Is this for real?

Is this how I'm supposed to feel?

I have no experience,

in matters of the heart.

I have no experience,

on how to let go, how to part.

They tell me everybody is pretentious; it's true,

I am too.

They tell me everybody lies; why, it's true,

I do too.

I lie for breakfast, lunch and dinner,

I don't care if I win, but everyone loves a winner.

The walrus in my heart is growing big,

The time has come, says he to me,

To talk of many things.

But I like to skirt awkward terrain,

I quite doubt my tolerance for pain;

It's easier to stay off solid ground, to float,

Oh, if only I weren't at the mercy of the boat.

Don't leave me stranded, pass me a hint -

If only I could control the wind.

Free falling through time and space,

All I was searching for was your face.

There's a sea of people,

And they never stop moving.

Constant flashes of light hit my face,

Feels like you left, without a trace.

But were you ever there?

Did I really cry?

Or is it just another lie?

I'm proficient with lies now,

I don't doubt their strength.

Yet sometimes I wonder,

Between teardrops and thunder,

If I should have been truthful,

And kind and unselfish.

It's okay, I won't think,

I'm good with stalling.

(What I'm better at is free falling.)

Lover By Choice

Fifteen years old and handsome by grace,

With a lack of wits to match his shining face.

Confidence brimming over in his loud voice,

Our hero was a student by profession; a lover by choice.

His perilous journey started at the tender age of four,

When going to school seemed to be quite a chore.

That is, till he noticed his very first girl,

Freckled and bold with a mop of fair curls.

He told her he loved her, his face quite grave,

But she dismissed him with a cavalier wave,

He didn't cry, though his head did ache.

Was this like the movies, real heartbreak?

He felt older beyond his years, but she didn't care,

And though she was lost soon, he never forgot her hair.

Not long after, when he graduated to kindergarten,

A lovely little lady visited his solitary playgarden.

She had on a little frock, her cheeks delightfully rosy,

He invited her to come sit, and please do be cosy;

But, as it transpired, she came not for tea,

But to throw a handful of mud at young master Humphrey.

That was the name of our yet-young and heartbroken boy;

A student by profession, a lover by choice.

He had not a sister, and craved the company of females,

But in the following years, he became quite used to dismally fail.

Some say this lies rooted in the fact,

That he possessed absolutely no tact,

Near a lady the poor bastard cannot control his tongue;

Perhaps he started looking for love quite a bit too young.

Some almost-conquests stand out from the dismal pack:

The bright eyed girl in sixth grade, broke his pencilbox with a loud 'crack',

The pretty eighth grader who harmlessly flirted,

Seeing his seriousness she wordlessly skirted.

Yes, our protagonist suffered many a heartbreak,

He listened well, bought red roses, and on occasion baked a cake.

He didn't like fighting, or other manly stupid games,

He never fit in with the other boys, and it was such a shame.

He would be a good husband, he was sure of it,

He would be a good father, and command by gentle wit.

Why, then, did he dissipate girls so?

I do not think we shall ever know.

“Perhaps”, he sighed, in his sixteenth year,

“I am meant not be loved”, and he shed a solitary tear.

He didn't end up celibate, renouncing romance,

He didn't end up gay, and it wasn't by chance.

He was sixteen years old and searching for love,

And right then, somebody gave him a gentle shove.

“Don't cry! Crying is for a wuss.

Man up, buddy, don't be a puss.”

He turned around and faced a young girl,

Dressed in baggy clothes, her hair without a curl,

At first he was disenchanted.

“You're no lady!”, he ranted.

She gave him a frown for his troubles and a kick in the shin,

And never gave him a chance to see her trembling chin.

“You're a sexist jerk, and you stereotype,

You think only girly girls are real girls, oh, I know your type.

Well, mister, I can give you a run for your money,

I can play soccer and crack jokes that are actually funny.

I listen to music, the real kind, and I'm kind and witty.

I don't wear skirts, so you think I aren't pretty,

But, mister-” She said in a rush, in an angry huff,

And whipped off her glasses and band in a puff.

Her eyes shone in the fading light,

Dark, intelligent and bright.

Also rather angry just now,

And wouldn't stop to let him wow.

Her hair were straight but raven-black,

And she noticed his awed look before her next attack.

My goodness, he said to himself in surprise,

She saw his open mouth and gazing eyes,

And spared him a small smile,

(He noticed her perfect teeth, meanwhile)

And arranged her features in a scowl again,

Moving on to awkward terrain.

“Beauty isn't skin-deep, you ignorant little jerk,

Think better next time, now goodbye – I have work.”

He stared at her retreating back,

Shamefully not following her track.

She's a beauty, he mused, but not to my taste,

She's loud and violent and she got no grace -

I'd love her to be my buddy though, we'd get along swell,

And, smiling a little, he went away as well.

Ah, irony, and it graced us yet again,

Many a fellow reminisced and laughed, when

Humphrey and Alex said their vows,

They've been happily married for quite a bit now.

It matters not, I suppose, curly hair and rosy cheeks,

Good looks that make a guy go weak,

At the end, all our hero did need,

A lady who would love him and take the lead.

“Love prevails!”, our protagonist would cry out,

“Goodwill and common sense!”, dear Alex would shout.

With a kiss she'd mute out poor Humphrey's voice,

Now not a student by profession, but always a lover by choice.

Christmas Eve

The little girl looks out the window,

Is Santa late? She wonders.

It seems like everybody is asleep,

Have they forgotten Christmas eve?

But the fat little man,

With the shiny reindeers.

He cannot possibly ditch her.

She waited a year, and now that its here,

He can't possibly bewitch her.

She was a good girl, she tried so hard.

She was kind and giving,

And good of heart.

But life is more complicated that that,

And she fumes in her room.

"He forgot me!", says she,

"Bloody unfaithful Santa."

She left the cookies and the milk,

She baked a gingerbread man.

The Christmas tree is beautifully lit,

Borrowed holly wreaths from gran.

She had never tried so hard for Christmas,

She had never wanted gifts.

But she never underestimated Santa,

Never caused any rifts.

And today she needed him,

She'd been praying for days.

"All I want for Christmas this time,

And mind you its not much.

All I want for Christmas is him,

Don't let me down as such."

But life isn't so easy,

And when it was 1.

She took down the stockings,

And waited for the sun.

She never really expected a call,

She never thought Santa would come around.

But first thing in the morning,

With fresh dewdrops on the ground.

He's waiting at the door,

With a little christmas gift.

"I told Santa all I wanted was you"

He said, "But he never came around."

She smiled and said, "I'm glad you did,

Santa can never be found."

But she didn't believe it,

And thanked him that night.

Santa couldn't make it that time,

But Christmas magic makes it alright.

Voices

He sat on the ledge of the bridge, his head in his hands. Cars passed behind him, zooming in blinding flashes of light and speed and silence. In front of him, for as long as he could see, was a dark and swirling mass of water, rising, and falling, and reflecting every glimmer on the horizon. The buildings were everywhere, it seemed, looming over the city like grim tombs of gray and black. The man just stood there, unsmiling and tense. He saw it all, he took it in; the city, the lights, the people, and the cars. He had loved this city since he was seven, and it suited him just fine, the bustle and the traffic and the lights. But it was incomplete to him – incomplete without the shouting people, and honking cars, and the splash of water against the concrete. It had been incomplete for a year now, and today, he decided, today he couldn't take it anymore.

One year ago, he was in a car crash. It was bloody, and expensive, and tough for everybody involved. But he was left with scars that he couldn't erase by forgiveness.

He longed to hear it again, the city where he grew up, the music of the cars and the people and the backdrop of water; trickling, swirling, crashing, and splashing. He longed to hear the voice of his son, who had just turned four, and couldn't understand why his daddy wouldn't listen to him anymore. His wife, whose husky voice had become an indelible part of his adult life, her tinkling laughter, her reprimands, the music of her feet as she ran across the wooden floor. He used to call his mother every month, and he could hear it in his head now, her cracking voice, still filled with the enthusiasm and joy of older days.

He never enjoyed listening to music in his younger years. He never developed an ear to good music till he met his wife, who sang softly to him heart-rending renditions of old eastern music. He could hear her voice now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear flashes of the conversations they had when they were in college, and he remembered them screaming at each other when they fought. He could almost hear them now, obscenities and sorrows and promises of love, all bundled under his tongue just waiting to be heard.

What is sound? He rolled the word over in his mouth. Sound. Music. Voices. He could feel his tongue moving, and he formed the words painstakingly, but as much as he tried, he couldn't hear himself. Is this it, then? He was talking, he could feel it, and anybody around him would be sure to hear him. But I will talk, he told himself, I will talk. His feet dangled and his hands slipped dangerously as the spray of water hit him.

Okay, he told himself aloud. And a woman walking on the bridge glanced over at him. He could feel their gazes on him, and he could see their lips move as they talked. What were they saying? He thought to himself. Did he say that aloud? He didn't know. Still he talked, saying every word carefully, articulating every sound. For who? He didn't know.

I'm going now, he said. They'll haunt me, these voices, they'll haunt me till I jump. They'll haunt me till the water slowly strangles me, and even then they won't be silent. And he saw the people staring at him, alarmed. Did they think he was mad? Was he mad? The deathly silence settled in his ears again. Maybe I am mad, he decided. Maybe these voices never happened. Maybe it's all my twisted memory, my made-up salvation.

Shakily, he got to his feet. This is it, then, he shouted. He was breathless now, but he shouted. And then in one swift move - was it an accident? - he took one step forward and fell through the air, as limp as a ragdoll, as weightless as a feather. And there were screams, and honking cars, and the immense splash of water as he crashed into the sea, but he did not hear it. He could only hear the voices that took over his head, the voices that he longed to hear again.