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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

—Robert Frost

I misunderstood silence for disapproval, temporary for permanent.

I see now it was only the unstrained sound of my rapidly beating heart that you were trying to hear. 

I stripped down and turned the heat up for the water but it was never hot enough to drive away the shivers the thought of you gave me. 

I am walking down the road, the strong wind in my hair and thinking of a happy poem about walking with you like knotted rope. 

I left my coat behind, I thought I'd see you somewhere along the way. 

I love stories, I go to a bookstore and see you sitting on a shelf. 

I can only pray that it is not the one I struggle to follow, but the one that gives me company in the small spot of sun in the park on a cold day.

Musings on a rainy day

There’s something about this that doesn't seem right. I walked out today and saw a naked boy shivering in the rain. He blended in so well with this city that reeks of the poverty of the rich. They made me believe that hypocrisy was not a desirable trait. Then what is it about these lofty ideas that are violated in private?

There are four tabs open on my laptop screen, music blaring through my earphones and a smartphone in my hands while my mother makes dinner in the kitchen. I think I know nothing of nothing. I want to make friends with the dog that stands motionless on the main road until an auto driver almost runs it over. That is when it decides to jump away. I think that is a talent I am required to have.
It is raining outside. But so what? It always is. I try to feign this bitterness over how things work; the ones who read me know I’m only just pretending. And it is not one that is rooted in moral dilemmas or a childhood gone wrong. I see you worry for me, ask me questions about how I feel but my mind is a blank slate. Pick up a chalk and whatever you write I will try to emulate. It gets late; I toss and turn until my mind registers that it needs to shut down.  

This is not a rant. The answer to everything these days is I don’t know.  This is only my hands trying to create some shape out of the mold in front of me. But then again I don’t know anything for sure anymore. I don’t think anyone does. Notice is a lie; the deception of a cleverly designed brain that dictates the eyes. My heart does not feel; it only pumps blood waiting for the day for the day it will be given a leave.

But maybe you are different. From me. From them. They must have told you, where ever you try to bring light, darkness will have reached first.  It is a race you cannot win. It is beautiful to watch you try.