All my life I felt like the ocean,
Until I realized that my tides were just jolts of a bottle,
Placed neatly on the mantle of a curious child,
Rocking it playfully, he created ripples of my existence.
Maybe that’s how it is,
the world to one, a toy to another.
I stand on an edge,
The edge where the valleys call out,
Heard of falling in love?
Yes, just that.
They call out assuring that they’ll hold me,
Assuring that it wasn’t really falling, it was a rising.
The plateau I stand on
Clutching its grip at my feet,
With every thought of jumping,
It gets tighter.
Trying to tell that maybe,
That’s how I got there in the first place
Jumping at every valley that opened up its arms.
And now I’m too afraid at a new promise this deep stretched pit makes.
Maybe, just maybe I’m done with falling.
Maybe, it was more about the fly, than hitting the rock bottom that lured me to jump.
I stretch my arms for the last fall, last fly.
Only to realise that maybe it is always about the journey and not the destination that makes you move from the place you are to the place you could be.
Standing in the middle of the road,
these clouds roaring,
tearing and crying at my feet.
As if screaming out to me,
“We will compensate,
Compensate for all the rivers dried up within you,
because now if you won’t cry, we will fall.
We will fall and remind you
of all the tears that you have cried,
those that were lifted to make us,
And we will fall, roar and set in you the belief
of how mighty you are,
of how you turn
everything you do to extremes of greatness,
be it love or loss.
We’ll show you the oceans you’ve created.”
It was raining,
I was walking the road I took everyday,
Acquainted with every curve, every pit,
I walked happy, hopping, humming.
The roads were dressed in puddles,
I hopped into one, little did I know it wasn’t a puddle.
I fell deep into the vertical cave…
This is exactly how it felt like when you left.
It was sudden, crushing, breaking, surprising.
The road I tread on everyday,
the road I knew like the back of my hand,
suddenly had a huge pit.
Maybe that was what rains did to us,
to you to me.
Rains of rage, rains of distrust,
rains after the thunderstorms growling
This is not love
This is not love
This is not love
I’m still there, in that pit, 20 feet below, crushed, calling out to you.
Come soon, or they’ll build a road over me, wipe me off like I never existed and once again you’ll walk all over me and ignore my screams.
From dusk to dawn,
I bathed in your silver light.
I knew the day would hurt,
I can’t stand the sun you know,
For I have been through fire, and now even a distant light scars my skin.
But then, there would be this night,
When you’d come and turn every sun burn to a love bite.
I sang, I spoke my heart to you.
I don’t know how much you heard,
you were just this, distant cold moon hung up on the night sky,
Shedding your light on things with and without heartbeats alike.
There comes the dawn again, there comes my wait,
there comes light, melting my iris like burning lava.
I’ve been standing here for too long,
pacing from where you left to where I wait.
Shouldn’t you be here by now?
My skin is burning,
I feel my hope evaporate.
Are you listening?
Why did you break the order,
for by now I was a prisoner of your monotony.
The sun has been up for too long now.
I wipe blood off my wounds,
Apply 10 layers to hide the scars,
My body was now the aftermath of your disaster.
I looked for love, in every piece of myself I picked up.
Every piece of when you shattered me,
Chanting an I love you over and over.
Like you knew, that it was a prayer, which striked my body and returned, every time, unaccepted.
For you offered bruises as flowers
And saved my tears as your temple oil.
And now you come, you kneel, you kneel not in prayer, not in love, you kneel in penance of lust assuming you’re forgiven.
I sit there with your head in my lap, because how much say does a stone have in how you love it?
I put flowers in my hair, every year on the day you left.
The same old ones you once bought for me.
The ones that live between pages, dried, stained.
After all it’s always been a tradition to adorn graves with flowers.