you wakeup one day and all of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk.
You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack.
This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity.
Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth?
The answer is no.
The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen. At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself.
Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours. Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past.
For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked.
One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk.
But someone out there is eating a bowl of noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting. The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate.
They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole. And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.
I’m writing to you tonight.
I miss you tonight,
and I know I’ve not always treated you right
you loved me regardless;
a mother’s love never measures
you observed my rise and fall, and through it all.
but with every stumble and every fall,
you were there to lift me up and dust me off.
mumma you are gone but not forgotten
you’re still with all of us somehow.
I am blessed to be an exact image of you.
it makes me happy when people say I look like you.
so when I get lonely and I feel out of place.
I’ll stare at the mirror at any time and place.
I don’t see me,
I see you.
and in the morning skies,
and in the moon light that illuminates the sky,
I see you,
I miss you so much today
as I do every single day
I’m missing your beautiful face
but I know you’re in a better place
I’m trying my best to have hope
and I know you want me to cope
but at times there’s just too much pain
I can’t help but go insane
at times I do things you wouldn’t condone
but I hope you understand I just feel so alone
I loved you more than you ever knew
and I never doubted for a second that you loved me too
I miss every single thing about you
without you I’m unsure of what to do
I don’t know anymore, what to say
A part of me left with with you that day
but every single night
I’ve heard you whisper “I love you" as I fell asleep.
I know that you’re watching me
guiding me still and helping me to see
you still love me and you’re always here
I know you want me to be better,
and I know you’re reading this letter
and on nights, I go and stand under the open sky,
the cool breeze encompasses me,
its your fingers running through my hair.
The skies are brighter,
and the heaven pours tonight,
Happy Birthday Mumma,
you’re the brightest star in the sky every night.
Happy Birthday Mumma
the veins on my hand look like
and still I’ve been trying to follow my heart home.
the road map of veins ends at my forearm
where I’ve etched your name countless times with shards of stained glass
home isn’t where the heart is
I was trying to keep you close
close so you wouldn’t slip away
i was trying to cheer you up.
your smile so bright; illuminate the world
you repaid me in the coldest way
i came home and you weren’t there
you left no trace
you left nothing but your scent
and that’s all that remained
it was present in the room, like a presence of its own
too many words were left unsaid
you made the choice without a care
even when I felt lost I wanted to feel numb
ever since that day
all my kisses like the word ‘sorry’ wrapped in silk and drowned in lilac, with ‘am I not lovable?’ sprinkled on top
somewhere below the depths of the eye of the hurricanes made
only of butterflies that answer only to your name
there are carpets of moss
between your toes
and dandelions commit suicide to every one of your wishes
Autumn and winter meet at the snow-capped peaks
of your shoulders at the mountainous
valleys of your collarbones
"we all want to get lost"
i am forever lost in your eyes
if we’re all myths, and nothing really exists
then why are
our hearts strung in the patterns that
you make out of the stars in the sky?
let me walk to you on the fire i stole from
mount Olympus, and let me unravel the phoenix flames
from Pandora’s box
i was at my lowest, when you found me.
your indecisive averted looks
took my heart away.
brown eyes, you held me close
and hold me so tight, so tenderly
that my heart still has your finger impressions on it.
you’re my rise, you’re my high.
you’re the Urooj, to my miserable life.
with held breaths we passed through the graveyard of all the summers spent together
we both walked in perfect silence past all those bleeding lips, scratched backs and claw marks we’d buried those hot summer nights
every night on our anniversary, the dead and buried come to life.
they knock on your window while you’re kissing lips that aren’t mine
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don’t let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says “I think I’m broken” smile like you
know a secret and say, “No, you’re mending.”
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
must be the one to do it herself, and you
merely are there to quietly encourage her.
Read her poetry (even if you are
not a poet), the kind that uses
flowery words and compares girls to
the moon; the kind that you will
rewrite for her. Make her a warrior.
Make her a goddess with eyes like a
wolf’s and a smile like a tiger’s.
Laugh with her the first thing in
the morning and the last thing before
you fall asleep. Tell her cheap puns
that you’ve been thinking of for weeks.
And when she smiles - the type of smile
that could bring you to your knees if
you aren’t careful - know that for the
moment, she’s yours. She is whole.
Love her. Love her like a fish loves
the sea or a bird loves the sky. Love
her in the way that your heart feels like
it’s going to burst at any moment every
time it beats. Love her skin and the way
it feels against your own, soft and warm
and utterly flawless. Love her for the way
her voice trembles when she can’t keep it
together anymore and love her when she
holds onto you as if you were the only
thing that was keeping her alive.
Love her, because some days she just can’t do it herself.
There were titans once;
before the moon laid claim to the stars,
they walked the lands in great lumbering herds,
tearing chunks from the Sun
There were titans once;
before the seas stretched out passed the horizons spine,
they danced long in the dust of yet-to-be diamonds.
These diamonds you wear,
that gleam like the Sun, are titanous,
but ominously dull to the glistening in your eyes
when you smile.
Scars whispering to one another while you sleep.
Scars itching as wicked things wander about.
Scars quivering as the candlelight flips and flickers liquid sparks.
Scars changing positions as the moon crawls above the pitch black plains above.
Scars mapping constellations as you wander through the dark.
Scars keeping me up, DEAFENINGLY SCREAMING YOUR NAME.
candles shiver, too bright to brave
fading into night and their delicate
pin tip wicks flicker-flash,
dancing in the ocean-tide winds
betraying the presence of
your ghostly breath
you sneak in like a whisper
(you didn’t use to be so quiet)
but now you tip-toe, weaving fog across
mirror edges in my mind and
you are just a moment
past midnight; three (strike.. strike.. strike..)
it is too late to resurrect you
the love-linger of your warm skin
atop mine or revive our
skewed dependent cycle of your
breath in my crushed rose lungs or relive
memories more faded than
darling, it is too late, let me sleep;
I’ll dream of you anyways
I am the sun
are the moon:
So when it’s 2am
in the middle of the night,
I know why
let it not be confused
let no one else’s name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
I don’t want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
I am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
so feel it out on your throat
for the last time
& if you are getting choked up
then maybe you should be
maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
for just being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a cleansing
do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
I am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
I am not a wishing well
I am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking balls
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that’s why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that’s why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
I guess that makes me your blindfold
I am lost in this emptyness,
come and save me.
Life is not a choice.
We don’t choose whom we are born from,
Or when we must leave.
No one requests birth.
If you saw the world before
You came, would you come?
Its end is not yours.
If your mom didn’t want you,
The end is your start.
If life gets cut off,
It’s called an accident so
no one can claim why.
And when your life ends,
You don’t decide the moment,
Because it’s old age.
So life’s not a choice.
No, the only choice you have
Is how you live it.
one day the earth will dim;
the light in the sun will flicker and die,
and the moon will sigh and roll over,
keeping her back to the world
our shadows will say farewell
to our bodies, and go their own
way in the darkness
This month, branches are outstretching
timidly, naked, shy of leaves. Autumn
is burning, the rich golds and twigs
snapping underfoot: a funeral pyre for every
late dawn and crisp, woodland scent that ever
trickled like honey down the throat.
when the ice awakens, colours have already
gone to sleep, tired from their all-year curtain call
of full bloom. powder falls, the stars are
shedding their skins, congealing in gentle dustings
on your eyelashes. you blink, and the dream is gone.
if winter is a sigh, spring is a gasp for breath:
rhythmic, unsure, but fully alive, as buds tremble
an ostinato in the breeze. tulips tenderly sing
lullabies to tiny green leaves, peeking with awe
out at a brave new world, straining to listen to
what will become a floral symphony, half dreams
and half oak and acorns.
when summer pulls on a garish shawl strung of
rose petals and water lily scents, the world
laughs, ricochets of mirth up to the atmosphere,
hot breath forming in clouds trailing peacefully
across the oceanic sky.
i am dreaming hazily of goldenrod fields
brushing sleepily against the peach blossom of
my ankles. you are leaning against dewy window
panes, watching green burn to red
then combust into dust, swirling around
in every season
i am there.