Sunday there was rain

Sunday there was rain, leaving me with memories. Rain seems to make them swell like bothersome flowers whose perfume is bittersweet. A night I remember: we were children, embracing in a garden above the Harbour. The rustling of azaleas, smell of oranges, a black frock she wore that absorbed all the stars and moon; reflecting nothing back. As she had taken from me, all my light. She has the carob-softness of my heart.

-Thomas Pynchon -V.

When It Rained

The clouds had just begun to gather as he closed the door behind him. I turned to look at him, like always. Taking my time to let that last look linger. When he’ll turn away, to retrace his steps, I’ll go home and have dirty thoughts of us.

He struggles with the old lock for a bit, and finally gets it. I turn back to face the road, so that he wouldn’t catch me looking. He quickens his pace to walk right behind me. It’s our daily ritual. It’s a familiar place, and we had just come out of an abandoned building. If someone sees us together, all hell would break loose. I walk slower than usual, trying to catch the scent of our lovemaking that still lingered in his clothes. He tries to push back his scanty hair into place and whispers, asking me to walk a little faster. More

A New Playmate

I always thought love was placid. Something like a silken shroud. Of eternal peace. It should have been something to soothe the ever grinding life. Something of a shade from the glaring sun of age. It should have been eternal.

I was wrong. We only love when we are in full confidence of recieving something in return. We do not really care if it has nothing to give to us.
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Crying

The same things have been happening over and over again.

I called.

“Hello, is Reshma there?”
“Yes Kabir, she is…she is saying she is not at home.”
“Ok.”
“Hello, what do you want?”
“Hello yeah, what happened?”
“Don’t you know? I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Ok. Bye.”
“Bye.”

I IMed.

Kabir: hi
Kabir: how come u r online so late?
Reshma: sut up More

Whatever

Words echoing in my head
The deep lagoon of nothing
Stirs a serpent coil,
Rising
In a smoky haze
Above my head
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This will not be a funny book

This will not be a funny book. I cannot tell jokes because I do not understand them. Here is a joke, as an example. It is one of Father’s.

His face was drawn but the curtains were real.

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If I told the truth

If I told the truth
You would not believe me.
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There are people

There are people who, instead of listening to what is being said to them, are already listening to what they are going to say themselves.

-Albert Guinon

Burning Bright…

He looked at me,
in our intimate moment
Smiled
And showed me his skin
At the places where it was burnt.

He asked me to pass
Through him,
Like water More

Bunny

My earliest memory of
my earliest memory…
is you sitting somewhere on a little table
licking salt with that long tongue of yours
that can touch your nose
and those eyes
those yes

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This Ole House

This ole house once knew his children
This ole house once knew his wife
This ole house was home and comfort
As they fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now he trembles in the darkness
When the lightnin’ walks about

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Cleaning My Closet

I have been cleaning my closet. I feel like a heroine. Perched up on a stool. Mops and dusters in hand. cleaning out the cobwebs. there are layers of dust settled on the shoebox that serves as my treasure chest. All my memories, safe inside it.

It has served me well all these years. But its grown old. Musty and moth eaten. Its crumbling now, of age. I handle it warily as I pull it out and keep it on my desk. Then as I lift the covers, my eyes get dazzled.
Its the smiles I once hid in there. More

I Lost My Soul

My shadow creeps on the sidewalks,
They are all empty today.
Used to be crowded once,
But now no one walks this way

The silence is deafening.
It’s ut on a parole.
In these busy streets,
I once lost my soul.
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Her Story

She stumbled upon an old diary yesterday. Going through the yellowed pages, she felt ashamed. She claims never to do anything for the sake of doing it.

Yet the diary. Reminding her of the scribblings that are there just for the sake of being scribbled. And she feels like the biggest hypocrite.
Funny how we can claim to be who we are not… Funny how sometimes we want something so much that we start believing lies about it…

She planted a lilly bulb yesterday. And then sat lovingly looking at the tilled soil. It has been turned. The seed in it breathing life, lightly, slowly. As she sits there and watches it, she is impatient to watch the first bids spring out. The wait is so tremendously painful that she has to try hard to keep her heart from breaking.
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Shipwrecked

She sits by the window. It’s almost dawn and her eyelids are heavy with sleep. She looks at the lighthouse… still no one at the waters. He is not home tonight too. And everynight, she spends in the same fashion. Waiting for him to return.

Everyday, she brings fresh flowers for him, and at night as they wilt, she throws them away. He doesn’t like to see them wilted. The same way he doesn’t want to see her wilted. But yet, here she is. Wasting away in the hope that one morning, at the horizon, she will see his small canoe. And he will be back in her arms.
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