Friday, August 20, 2010

Not even for a day.

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep..


Prelude. Nostalgia. Yanni's violin weeps like stones on riverbeds and rain on crumbling mud huts.

We can't watch movies in Ramadan?
Preferably not.
Because God isn't into Hollywood?
Because Hollywood isn't into God.


The rain outside gets faster and faster as I sit and decide whether or not it's safe for me to tell you much I miss you. The rain outside gets suddenly angry and I think about why this has to be so hard. Why you can't be like all those other boys who want to save up to buy all the wrong presents, want stolen phone calls and more than just promises of a lifetime together. I think of what she said to me as we lay on the floor thinking about all the choices we made, some good, mostly bad. "All the mistakes I've ever made fall into a vicious pattern, like a morbid Fibonacci series. We do this to ourselves, don't we? We pick up the most jagged stones and rub our hearts against them, because easy will never be good enough for us."

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.


What is marriage to you?
A promise. A promise of valuing someone's safety and happiness and health above your own. It's a promise of keeping someone's deams alove and wanting to build their dreams with them.
By your standards, we're already married.


You place your head in my lap and tell me how your parents got married.

Perhaps I was wrong. Love is that promise. Marriage is the realisation of that promise, service and sacrifice in the name of it.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?


I cried for hours on end on the night you died. I ushered you back. You came as a ghost, present but vacant. Like a marriage with someone you would give up the world for but who can never love you back the way you want to. I wished upon you another death. Talking to you this way is harder than not talking to you at all.


I retract conversations we've had, smell the words that were. I hear stories of guys who get jealous because their lovers take pictures with their guy friends and they hurt me. Sometimes, I nearly wish it was easier for me to deal with your disappearances and absences without cause or reason. Sometimes, I nearly wish this love was a little ordinary.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

In the Ivy.


You leave me every time you say my name like that.

Don't be coy, you never stop me.

I have faith in you.

I'm beyond the stage where I protest to that statement.


 

Sometimes I almost wonder as to why I leave you just to come back again. Why I drown your light out, cause you the hurt I think- almost wistfully hope- I cause you? Sometimes I think I do it to protect you from myself while you pray to be my victim every time. I protect you from things that are worse than seeing me walk away, like seeing me in defeated insanity.

         **            **

You sit on your roof top a little before sun-down. Your sun is somewhere towards your back behind the water tanker and the mountains and piles of grey clouds. You know it will rain soon because of the colour of the sky, the way the air smells. Your sister sits five feet away from you and asks you what you're doing. You open a creamy pack of Davidoff lights and hold the lighter close to you. Your brother appears from between the water tanker, sun and mountains and you snub out your freshly lit cigarette. You wait for him to go, the sky breaks into a drizzle. Your sister runs for cover. You light a fresh cigarette and guard it with your hands. The sky breaks into stormy torrents, pelting the back of your neck, the hair at your nape, the skin on your back under your black oversized shirt. A red shawl lies on the cement, caught between wind and water. You inhale; hold it in for a little too long. The wind blows your exhaled smoke towards the mountains in which people die on misty mornings in unguided flights. Water dripping from you like blood, you walk to your sister and hand her your umbrella and laugh. 'It's raining,' you explain.

         **            **

You're in the clouds and everyone is singing. One of them strums the bittersweet strings of a guitar. You throw stones into the distance and celebrate if yours goes the farthest.

Without you I cannot confide in anything

The hope is pale designed in light of dreams you bring..

It runs in me, your poison seething through my veins,

This skin is old and stained by late September rains…

Sometimes, their voices seem to travel through time and space and other dimensions, whirring as they pass through each, fading out in comparison, coming to you as a ghost in a moment of divine revelation. Your mind forms an image of a familiar face and then it is lost. There is a waterfall somewhere and you walk through the jungle madness to the sound of it. To the sound of a promise that it will all be over soon.

I'll take you down the only road I've been down

You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet…

They look into your eyes as they sing a lyric full of love. It comes to you as a ghost and then it is lost. You are lost, but you smile through it. It's so much easier to pretend in the darkness.


         **            **


You scream for attention, pace your room in thirst and helplessness before you return. You don't understand what happened, or how it happened, or why. In people's thoughts and conversation, you find a way to blame yourself for all the mess you see around. You read blue words full of loving and wonder if they were meant for you.