A STORY ON US

 //They buried you but forgot me//

Dead marigolds in the waterglass,

a forgotten beauty.

Uunshed tears and memories 

merge together ,

forms a mire -

alluring yet deadly. 

I was pulled into pieces_

between love and obedience,

between earnesty and respect.

A complete fool,

a useless rag..

The wolves will follow me

until the end of the desert,

howling the magnificent notes

of all the sins I committed.

Thirsty ghosts speaking of

 good old days,  seducing

the depressed blue vein

of my  right hand. 

I see blind gods,

their eyes peering through me,

what will they find inside:

hidden daggers, mutilated words

and beautiful lies?

They call me a hectic, 

one bitten by a bat.

How cruel to misinterpret

your mulberry kisses into

a Draculian cut, a satanic rite?

You are a traitor who left me

silently,  mercilessly, 

turning my world 

silent and barren.

What  remains is a treasure box 

without treasure,

total catastrophe,

cultivated blankness.

Am angry,  

thwarted and helpless 

like a moth with burned wings,

who went near the flame

willingly,

aware of the consequences.

I set fire to myself,

a doomed light.

Ashes everywhere _

soft enough to camouflage 

with the earth and wind.

Now,

Cut my black curly locks

Proserpine..

Will you?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am yearning for death.  Forever longing for it...achingly..When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it ca...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more

The Unanswered Ring: Returning to Decision to Leave

Some films don’t scream.They breathe. Softly. Like someone lying next to you who doesn’t dare touch you. “Decision to Leave” wasn’t a thriller to me. It was a letter never sent.A wave that crashed but never reached the shore. I watched Seo-rae fold her silences like laundry. Every movement quiet, every word a disguise. And yet—every glance, a plea: “See me. Even if you don’t believe me.” And Hae-jun— he didn’t fall from a mountain.He dissolved, little by little, like a man walking into the sea,telling himself it’s just water. The film didn’t ask me to watch. It asked me to listen. To sighs. To footsteps. To hunger that never became desire.What kind of love is this? One that doesn’t kiss, but watches.Doesn’t hold, but follows from a distance. Doesn’t beg, but leaves quietly, hoping to be remembered...The kind that hides in plain sight. The kind that tells you,“You’re better off without me,” but still checks if you’ve eaten... A Scene I’ll Never Forget: (And perhaps, never forgive) Seo-r...
Read more