chaiNboli

I am fading and he is not noticing. I will be a wisp of air and he won't notice.i know this. I know everything. I know that each time I proclaim my love, I am handing him a stone to throw at me. I know that this man, whom I am afraid to name as mine with confidence, is a crystal cyanide wrapped in sugar syrup. His ugly honesty disarms me, dismantles me ; a flood that washes a garden, thinking that it is helping the dry earth.  He is sensible enough not to catch a falling knife with his bare hands. Am the fool that runs along streets to make sure that the last wish of an autumn leaf came true. We are not the hands waiting to come together to form a prayer. That is we are two ancient civilizations: one who won and the other who died. So, being safe means being out of love. But,  love is a silent drowning and he is the mouth of a river. Every morning I am taking form of another square, contemplating boredom of a childhood no one wanted until it was lost. And like the singing of a...

Don't uproot flowers in the first place,  then they won't wilt. In the uproar of vapour of colours,  grief was taking  the form of a deaf translation. In the shade of dark nights,  the doors were standing  still,  until the wind ran on shapeless feet. We were children, who were afraid of magic glitter. Drowning, In the water of womb. Manicured to sit in a lawn  borderded by bloodline of fathers. Stuffed inside the    throat of death's desire. We were two birds inside their shells,  manifesting a storm,  so that we can fly. We are a single record of raptures,  lifting words of flame that is  tender as a God's love. We were water, our roles in between comforting or being danger . We were two names alive in the graveyard. And then you kissed me-  a coffee burn. A structured and systematic bruise. Heaven is your pronoun,  hell is mine.

My sadness is a green grape And yours, a strawberry bun. I have stared enough at your voice  to understand that  there is no art that can  help you swallow it. That there is no language  that can help you  to articulate the softness. You have listened to my eyes  enough to understand that there is no seasoning  that goes perfectly my grief. That no word play can dictate  the poised gifts of  my adulthood. It is the magnetic strip of our silence  that  measures our solace,  grasping shape of space. We have grown tired of holiness. There is self pollination of guilt. Despite everything, we search for metaphors,  trying to hold our mind in our fists. So, one day, when your shower turn into  a red river, I will be the first one to understand. This is why my tenderness is cruel. This is why my love is frightening. On the other hand, one day, when my carpet turns blue  enough to be a sea, you will be first to turn into...

//It's my own hands that are strangling me, Throwing shadows everywhere while searching for a light.  It's my own feets that are leading me to cliff, running away is futile when you are crippled// When I say the nakedness of a river is inviting, I mean growing myself into an old algae root where new born fishes can play hide and seek. Or being turned into a bleached calcium stone without being questioned about the meaning of existence. Or weaving a carpet out of my tissues for the baptism of an atheist. Or rolling the present tense, back lit with the star glow into a soft future no one can measure and dream upon. Or sacrificing the helpness into something that can feed the hunger of a kingfisher who is  choking in poverty. Or fitting everything I own into the closet of a ruby throated mermaid who isn't afraid of copper laughs of poisonous snakes. Or spinning along with the hidden currents of the water, like a reverberating cry of an old bell. Or becoming the chill of a prot...

It is important to tie knotes out of  the shoulders and circuits in the brain,  before stirring water with a clay spoon. Otherwise, the hands  won't be soft enough to  clean the red tides of memory. The breath of sun beam  will give colour to our skin,  a piece of rainbow over the cover,  May be erase the existential crisis. Inside there are crimson prints,  but don't worry,  we are just carrying wounds, not guns. No one will notice. No one will be harmed,   just us. Pack chlorine smiles,  before copper footprints ask  flowers to stand in a line. And manifest to have a flicker of breath. Because  Our poems are tails of snow. Our extinction won't add value, Our fossils won't be appreciated. We are half baked tragedies. This is the short history  of a candy before being swallowed. Not an autobiography. 

There was a time when I didn't know what death was other than the hard silences in a funeral. When the Holy nakedness of God was not questioned, but was one where solace was found. It was then you kissed me and taught me about the spilled colours in a bird's brain. Your words like burnt milk, but then am a hungry child - malnourished with a tender skin. My bones so soft - Red cherries under your white teeth, Sugarcanes for your mouth. My flesh, under your tongue,  lining your inner cheeks- honouring this palpable killing. Whips of blue wind rising from your nose, slitting my voice, asking me to  adore the floor you spit on. Angry jellies moving in air,  like an abducted handcuff: that is meaningless. Strangeness of ginger gin when your fingers touch me. Fear of an apple towards a knife  spreading in the knotted mattress  which takes the form of second skin.  Slavery of a cry,  its silver tissues unearthing the memories of summer's  with sun's gold...

The fingertips of mountain gods write novels on sinned mortals while the teeth of a dentist is rotting. The carpenter's door failed to be closed,while the molted fur of a sheep is shaved off in preparation of coming winter. A bullet in the size of a bee, fatal but small , waiting to be entered into electric spores. A nest of baby teeths were mermaids curl into peaceful sleep, unafraid of fishnets with pronouns of "he/him". The light bulbs pumping darkness to take care of the travel of guns. The tentacles of a wasp cuddling the prettiness of a shark smile, putting safety pins to keep it on place. Dismantling the collar bone of a salmon before turning into a lavish feast. Bruises of aggressive flames punched into your skin. Gunpowder becoming the soil were my roots stand. The song of an engine,kept near to the head of a one eared man, mocked for being same as your heart beat . The inherited questions flowing from your mouth with a courage for the first time in lineage. Hold...