Farewell at dawn

Lay down here and wrap us now
In your black linens that have my drink
In red, darker spots. From the last time I came here
And threw and spilled whatever I had.
Just spread the carpet on the patio, that
We so graciously filled with all the stuff
You didn’t need, and shit that I’d left for the times not yet decided.
Graze your arms with my cotton sleeve,
and let me feel
The toxins running through you or I’ll walk out. Because when you open your eyes
The next time, I won’t be here making you
Tea again. I’ll be drowning someone else
in wine
That I’ll borrow. I’m not your pills
To keep you from waking up.
being dead, but just almost.
Dead to the show, but alive in the lucidity.
Of being aware of the existence of infinite suns and moons,
Knowing how tiny this orb of chaos is,
But still pretending to ignore the abyss.
And being vague in this limbo.
Be real to me,
just this once. We’ll cut your veins open
and let the poison fill up, in my glass flask
Or the red solo cup. The kinds who are the witness, to heartbreaks and tears
and teenage mistakes. In the boxes of momentary obscurity
and mattresses made of pride.
We’ll sip that bitter blood, and sway our limbs.
To the sounds of The Backstreet Boys playing secretly,
in the distance.
Just enough for your hums to be audible and
For the liquid to sweeten in its aftertaste. You’ll drink away,
and that face will be soiled with the marks,
Don’t worry, they’ll be gone with me.
The marks of insecurity and all the things uncertain,
The weave of the yellow sweater you wore
To the beach because you didn’t want to be ogled in confusion
I could chain it up, with my own flowing locks of uncertainty.
Or we could burn it with the memories that no one
Wanted or needed, the images that would’ve looked better in the films. The Polaroids we
got for our 2nd,
From the thrift store down in the plaza. Where insecurity loomed almost as large as the skyscrapers,
Touching the clouds, symbolically as always.
I just wanna dance, sway the hurt away. Just this one time
I swear. I admire the moon for its heroics,
And strength.
Of standing alone and gazing from behind the blinds,
But baby, I’m not a rock and I can’t keep dancing alone.
See me here, and see me now.
We’ll kiss in the starlight and call the moon names.
We’ll swear at the sea and curse the moon,
For it knows it’ll be there. Longer than
the forever that young hearts promise to be. We’ll shout at the sand
for its romance with the sea.
We’ll smirk, at the stolen kisses
That the moon sends, every now and then
Making the sea dizzy and wavy
With the ebb marking the anguish.
Because we’re clichéd
and as star-crossed lovers do,
We’ll wonder where do all the lonely people go,
We’ll curse our signs, we’ll abuse our times.
We’ll call out, for all its love, this generation of roses and sunsets.
For teaching our lost bees, that love is old polarized pictures;
of wine in your bag and lights in mine.
That it’s not a scar
that burns when you put it under the tap. For making it a pink sunset,
when it’s really a constant storm with patches of drizzle.
In a marshland full of mud that’ll cover you.
But we’ll forgive them tonight, and take chugs,
Of a cocktail of lies.
We’ll slow dance on that
Elliot Smith hit, and whisper the truths that
Made us old and retro. The sepia filled noons,
And the content silences which didn’t need conversations.
Because this whisper filled silence won’t last long.
The stars will die, and our shared adoring
of the sky will die,
Yet again.
I won’t be making you tea, and the sheets will be cold again. The patio will be empty, and the truths won’t be told again.
We’ll be apart,
but we’ll finally be old again.

Paper/Glass? Both.

Yours is the name I scribble on foggy windows,
In the misty dreamy nights,
With all the fancy beaming lights,
And all their saturated glows.

The one on my aging walls,
The one in my naïve tales.
The one which stole my heart,
The one it never fails.

Synonymous with the world,
Quite rightly so,
While I may want her,
I don’t really need her, no?

It’s the one that stains,
The ancient pieces of paper,
Under the old book cover,
And in all the blue veins

Lying here, somewhere
Under this fragile glass ceiling,
On these very letters
Does it really need my unveiling?

Yours is the name, sweetheart.
Yours is the name.

A Girl Named Mary

This is your favourite sketch pad, saying hi.
I heard you quit drawing, and so
I brought along your favourite CDs
that you’d rather listen to alone
hugging a 100-pound soft-toy that
resembles your brother. Or it did.
I am a couch with rusty nails
that will infect you with boredom,
of lying 3 hours in front of a rerun,
I am the dirty cup,
that sits on the kitchen counter
holding every useless thing in the house.
I hold discarded toothbrushes, and pieces of paper
that no one wants to read.
Your father’s fancy pen sits
side-by-side my impressive collection of keyrings that
I steal from people.
There’s a golden letter M, that’s tied
to the keys of our apartment.
You see, the letter is
of no real significance to either of us,
but the child that sold it to us,
was a girl named Mary,
who was a better salesman than I.
And our apartment was no place for dolls,
Like Mary, and your mother, and you.

This house is a monument of failures
Built by people who say yes sir.
A refuge for men that would rather
eat an insect, than stand up.
For people who stuff their faces
with soggy tasteless bread.

So outside my house, I built a shrine
For the brave.
I put my papers there, and your colours.
You can come and pick them up at 8.
Do not step inside our house,

you are not welcome here.
We only welcome people who submit.

Joys to her

I’d heard laughter was contagious

Strange enough, hers’ wasn’t!

Twas’ the kind when I had to stop-

In the middle of my rant

Pause that “punch line”

And watch her in pure awe

All the lines forming on her face

The newer ones prettier than the last

Zoning back in I realised

I’d stared at her so many times!

And that, my fellow lovers

That’s the reason I make her laugh.