Skip to main content

Of Warts and Moles

I think about you constantly. I wake up with your thoughts playing in the foreground. I clench on to you as sleep invades my world and drowns me, one thought of you at a time. The melange of your thoughts continue in my dreams. I dream that I have been in a crash and you come to visit me at the hospital. There is a recurring dream in which I keep crying because I broke your toe nail. There is also this dream of you taking me on a long drive across a ravine, the car chasing the clouds and your hair smelling of wild lilies. There are other dreams as well, the once I cannot write about but you would understand.

There was a time when I used to be extremely perturbed with having to constantly carry you in me. I would often pray for a one-time memory wash. My soul would often be heavy from my burden of you. I would often cry myself to sleep, hoping that some bit of you would probably drift away through those tears. I have cried for my grandma too. Earth shattering hollers so that she can hear me in heavens and come down again. But yours were muted. Just a steady flow of my love for you drenching my pillows, and a weak moan now and then, as if an unborn child of mine had died.

But in time, my shackles of you transformed into strange limbs. Some bit of you turned into skin, some took the form of beautiful scars and warts and all.

And my dear, all these years, I have let you be, just the way live in me.

Some thoughts have to keep playing in our idle minds, why then should it not be yours? Most of them are so brilliantly colored and beautiful. Most of them smell so wonderful, quite like you.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Objects in the rear-view mirror are…

When it was time for her to go, it was also time for me to let go. Once an irritant is washed out, they say you can start seeing better immediately. All that stupid tears and all that rubbing of the soul, until your eyelids would cry out, no more, no more. 
And then, just like that, one fine day, I wake up, and she was gone.
As the train chugged out
The tracks cried out in senseless
creaks of half despair

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda,
You would have smelt of summer roses
And Autumn pine.
There would have been sheer love
Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache
And loneliness bordering the divine.
You would have had so many secrets
Welling up as in a girly giggle
And so few friends who would hear them all.I am no Neruda
I can't paint you a Summer breeze
Amidst this long winter chill.

Clarity

I have looked at myself
From the edges of reason
And discovered
That both my sanity and insanity
Springs forth like seasons
Out of my distances from you. Realizing thus
I have allowed the outer rims
Of my diffused sanity
To fritter away into crumbs
Of misplaced memories
From my time with you. I have often found myself being unreasonable
When I am away from you.
And generally insane
When otherwise.