Sunday, March 27, 2011

At Night It All Comes Rushing Back

"Grab your bags, and a picture of where we met."- Matt Kearney

Where all I crave anymore is to be held gently, whispered to, reassured, and calmed. All I'm left with is wide spaces, an empty heart, and a brimful of hurt. When someone's superfluous you know what to do with them. But what when someone puts it on. To be superfluous just to escape the reality of pensive and brooding. The pain is going. Your Facebook profile is dull and is somewhat consoling. I haven't seen you or spoken to you, in over a month. It's getting better. It's getting better with each passing moment. Until I see her. It's a stabbing idea of you moving on. Not on to an imaginary entity that I may have to never see. But someone I have to spend another year with. While you're off. Making it worse or better, whichever. I don't mind being a picture of something I always, not quite so openly, looked up to. A mirage of perfection, an unfathomable intimidation, a series of quotable connotations, an unhealthy intoxication, and a star liberally dusting off its stardust. A wide-eyed, minion-like starlet you chose. Just because she was a poor reflection of a new price-tag. They're all the same thing. Length matters, so does depth. Breadth, for me, has always been something of a useless parameter. And while you could have enhanced both, you picked the 'float factor.' Something that'll get you by in life, but that's about it. At the risk of contradicting my non-tutorial stance, maximize your potential. And you'll thank me forever. Very unlike me, this time away from you, I have spent reconciling, re-emoting, and most importantly, re-surfacing. I'm making me proud. You would have been too. My new dubious diet, holds a lot of promises, but it is for me to wait and see. In some ways I'm hoping it'll drop me off at your doorstep. And in more ways, I'm hoping you'll let me in. If wishes were horses. I secretly know you're watching. Reading. Deciphering. Social networks don't keep much these days. Touching a million galaxies and back. That's me. Auras and fake models of the real stars, are sometimes more real, and many times more beautiful. Then why rely on reality when my make-believe world is a perfect shade of fuchsia? I'm preparing for my trip to the world of organza, tulle, ruffles, and gold. Wishing, again, that halfway through, you'll forget and forgive and even apologize. I don't know if I can start over. But I want you to want to. This came to me in my sleep. Away from my glittering world. That's got to mean something, right?

A to A.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


There is no beauty, no transformation, as the one that stubbornly, vengefully, emerges after a spurned love. It is of the spurned lover.