Could you?

Could you live with the night in your sunny universe?

Could you accommodate a tear in your vast smile?

Could you stay awake when all you needed was sleep?

Could you fool yourself in thinking everything was fine?

Could you carry the burden of the past knowing it wasn’t one of yours?

Could you be fine for you and i both?

Could you desire when i had lost hope?

Could you hope when i despaired?

Could you be ruined for the sake of my reputation?

Could you replace your warmth with my chill?

Could you truly make me yours when i’m not even mine anymore?

Could you feel when I went numb?

Could you live with knowing that it was a path of thorns you were walking on?

Could you spin poetry from the unwritten prose i served you?

Could you?

Could you?

The Ghost- a girl’s best friend

It’s been a couple of months since she visited. It was very often initially- everyday almost, then it reduced to about twice a week and then she vanished for a month without leaving a trace of where she had gone. I missed her. I cannot lie. I missed her cold touch and her visions, as weird as it may sound.

Somewhere deep inside the mesh that is my heart, she felt like home. She was my constant and her being there meant that I still had feelings. She would make me dream reality when awake and she would spin stories from the remnant fabrics in my mind as I slept.

Who is she? She is my ghost- my friend, my past and my present. It was six months since I moved back home- the small apartment with more windows than doors that I call home. The morning of January 25th was grey with specks of black dispersed here and there. The golden had been replaced by the gloom and even the birds thought it safe to stick to their nests and not venture out far.

The cookie man across the street didn’t show up to lift the shutters off his store and the milk man seemed to be in a smoke induced haze of opium as he handed the milk packet. I knew she was coming even before I opened my eyes.

I had to prepare for her- make her a welcome feast and burn down certain documents in the archives of my head. I kept the drugs close at hand. Just in case…

As I opened my eyes, I saw her dark boring eyes just inches away from my face. She had the same paleness and was accompanied by the chill. When she saw me smile, her cracked lips extended into a full smile. Now, reader, you might get deterred by her features. It’s almost death like, but know this she is the part of me that is just naked emotions manifested in physical form.

Very silently without a whisper, she changed positions and rested her hand on my head. Her nails were half eaten and half chopped. But it didn’t matter.

I closed my eyes and I saw a little girl run towards a dog. The dog wagged its tail and welcomed the girl with licks. They seemed happy. The kid’s hair was tied into a ponytail and her frock was turquoise. Her laughter echoed in my ears making me smile.

The scene changed. The dog, now old and haggard lay on a steel table that seemed to have no space for emotions whatsoever. A woman, presumably the little girl now grown up, stood holding the dog’s hand with tears streaming down her face. Her long hair was tangled and hung around her like mist and her mascara poured down her cheeks along with the salt water.

It was time, the man in the white coat said. It was time indeed. She gave the dog one last look; there were tears in the dog’s eyes but they smiled none the less. She bent down, gave him one last kiss and watched the life ebb away from her only friend. She was all alone in the white room, holding on to the only piece of life that was hers and hers alone.

It was done.

After what seemed like an eternity, I was back in my bedroom with her by my side.

“Until next time,” she said as she faded away in the grey once more, not to return soon.

Exile

It was a memory,

so close yet so far.

A ghost of my past;

a whisper in the dark.

 

‘Hi friend’, it said to me,

‘felt my absence, haven’t you?’

It scoffed at me,

i could see its smug.

 

It reminded me of all that was

till play acting became my favourite sport.

And i took to pretence

till i knew myself no more.

 

 

Some of my favourite artists were exiled;

they wrote of their homeland love.

And all the while i thought to myself-

exile can be of different kinds, they have that wrong.

 

Now I wonder whether i will ever be free

from the hands of my memory.

And whether i will ever move on

and build a house to call a home.