May

It is such an unnecessarily tedious cycle, sifting through my email every year, trying to figure out the right date. It has to be the right date. Anything but would be embarrassing.

Was it the 14th? Was it the 24th? Why is the next thing I remember – after those unnecessarily composed lies in the car before the floodgates opened – sipping burnt tea from chipped china at a khoka by the GT Road, fingers numb under the sun, eighth grade Urdu notes across the table?

Was eighth grade all the way back in 2014? It has to be much more recent. The tape on the glass of your cabinets can’t possibly have stuck around that long. It can’t have been too long ago; I can see myself pulling out my dusty crafts the night before an inconsequential midterm all too well, working unnecessarily hard on gluing glitter onto two Mother’s Day cards that I could only send two people by a bedside across the Blue Mosque that night pictures of anyway. Mother’s Day. Was it May the 12th then? May 13?

Was it tonight?

When exactly did the may survive’s and may pull through’s and may come back’s dissipate; no, when did the will’s morph into may’s and then burst into a well-planned will behind the glass doors of a well-traveled Van Gogh-adorned drawing room down a well-kempt street within a house that has a garden that continues to be watered unnecessarily, considering it hasn’t bloomed since? A search through my email brings up only your birthday, and the digital version of the newspaper notice shows only the same tie they plastered over every well-intentioned publication, but my unused Facebook, it tells me it was May 14, 2014. It’s funny, some posts say it was the 15th. Perhaps I’m not the only one with consequential amnesia. Perhaps we can form a support group, build our memories back piece by piece, of the nights on an empty bed with a tally counter and of Viber calls and trembling drawers and a shattered vase nobody ever got around to missing.

Maybe the entire goddamned month of May is a series of fragments nobody misses yet splinters we never extracted in fear of forgetting them instead of putting the picture back together, but I suppose we’ll stick with May 14. I’ll put it right here to come back to next year when I write another unnecessary ramble the night before another inconsequential exam. We’ve always had a knack for coming up with traditions on the way up hills that feel like mountains, you and I.

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wake me up at dusk

Whenever I dream of you
I dream of those dusky sofas
that have since been replaced
And sunlight
that’s doesn’t feel the same
I dream of winter tangerines
that don’t bloom anymore
And echoes of a stranger’s laugh
That I try to pull from the depths
of my subconscious
I dream of three mirrors only I can see you in,
A thousand reflections you would hold me up to
Of still-full closets and bare Moleskines
Dust embedded fingerprints on dried-up pens
Whenever I dream of you
I dream of black eyeglass frames that I last saw neglected,
on top of an out-of-use television set

Image Source

Wordsmithery

Teach me how to write again
Walk me through a twilight church
Stained-glass painted eyes
And hymns in your smile

Teach me how to write again
Walk me through a dawn beach
Waves grazing your tippytoes
And Riptide on repeat

Teach me how to write again
Walk me through an old bookstore
Nimble fingers, golden lettering
Inscribed beneath your soul

Image Source: San Giorgio Maggiore by Twilight (Claude Monet, 1908)

at sea

people can be anchors
holding you steady, keeping you grounded
losing themselves to sink to the sand
grasp. clutch. hold onto them tight.
staying you from drifting too far from land

people can be lifeboats
rowing you from burning barques and bridges
head safe above the sunkissed surface
sweep. steer. feet on dry land.
their laughter, buoying your seagirt raft

people can be sirens
enticing melodies beneath the deep
dissolving your resolve, poetry in their eyes
reel in. bewitch. mesmerize.
if music be the food of love, they’ll surfeit lyrical smiles

some people are sirens
others, lifeboats
some are anchors

but you
are all three

Image Source

Unbroken Stream of Consciousness

She doesn’t know how to get out of her head
Or tighten the spaces between her words
Or tend to the chronic wounds she’s bled
So she stands by rusty train tracks
Clutching a metro card, fully topped up
With guilt and ingratitude and all things ugly
Fueling her one-way trip to Desolation

She read this poem the other day
It warned her, don’t let life pass you by,
waiting for change or the next big thing
But here she sits, in the winter sun on the marble stairs
That lead into her own personal little purgatory
Being held up by Godot
Shunning those fleeting moments of clarity
Anxious to sink into the mud again

They say, stay for the ones who care
But she can only sit on these marble stairs
That lead into her private little pity party
Watching people who don’t, pass by
(just an observation, no bitterness intended, she must clarify)
They’re never going to pine for the girl on the stairs
Maybe hear of her in passing
Say a silent, disconnected prayer
And jump aboard their own outbound trains
Hopefully disembarking at a blither place

Each perfect summer is rotting away her insides
Every fresh accomplishment, eating her alive
Each doomed friendship is tearing at her flesh
Every crumbling relationship, a wave of guilt afresh
Squinting at the sallowness peeking through the high-rise
She stretches out her legs over these yellowing marble steps
Don’t worry about her leaving, she’s already left

Image Source

people talk

let me know if you ever want to bunk class i’ll cover for you look at these guitars people broke you look sad today are you okay i like black abayas better I wear this scarf even though it isn’t part of the uniform the uniform scarf doesn’t stay put where did you guys watch the movie can you send me the link i need to finalize the flower arrangements how many seats do we need for the formal dinner i can’t do the psychology homework there are too many questions ma’am where will we get the glass podium from i wouldn’t be alive if i hadn’t been born in america can you give us less questions next time the doctors had to restart my heart when i was born aik second

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