Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Being synonymous to unpicked.

Don't believe.
It's a vicious thing, this love.
It makes you believe, it makes you trust.
It clutches onto your throat and claws its way upto your head, and pounds its way down to your heart.
It tears you, and rips you apart, into a million shards.
Of glass.
Of disbelief.
It cuts you and discards you in a bin of life that you never thought you'd have to see.
Free. Freedom. An impossible attainment. Let me be.
I don't want you anymore. I just need you. I need you to make me feel wanted. 
No. To give me a reason of existence again.
I could make any of your kind do that. But I picked you. And let go of a tiny detail. You didn't pick me.
He picked. Even HE picked. Put all my convictions to shame. Karma. But I'm ok. I promise.
I'll make it go away. Despite my seams of pathos and desperation I'll make your doubts go away. But now I have to go away.
You're wrapping me in unique sheets of isolation. And then hooking me up on the walls of your convenience. You're picking, choosing and deciding and it's nothing that he didn't do to me before, him the one with the option of not having me as an option. Or him, the one with the month to spare. Or him, who snapped out of it just in time and didn't inform me.
I'm used to it. But it's a used I don't want to be. 
A habit I don't want to keep.
I hate this. And I secretly hate enjoying this part of 1 a.m. tears and Classic Milds when I prefer Benson Lights so I just throw half of it away and hope the guards downstairs don't complain. When did it get so bad. That I made peace with my own absurd prerogatives?
It got here today. And I despise today. I want to despise you, if only I could. I'll attend my 8 a.m. lecture and hate it. Stand in the foyer two and a half hours later, and live, then want to relive, the pain. Let you in again just so you can capture me on film. Publish and freeze. Because those are the only moments it's not about your 80-20. I want a 100, and I know that when that happens. It wont favor me. 
The realization, is cutting its way slowly through the point where my wrist meets my palm but I go on, and i just. don't. stop. Only now. Make that 4 seconds worth of rest.
Blink, blink, blink. No sleep. Girls who care too much for their own good, are too far away for mine. But evoke gratitude nonetheless. I can't even dial you any longer. Because you're dreaming. And I just wish I was too.

Good night my almost lover. Summer 2012, wish it were here already.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Dance this life away?

"Tides they turn,
and hearts disfigure.
But that's no concern,when we're wounded together."- Jason Mraz

Wake up one morning, in the same bed, the same house, the same you. Yet everything is different.

You don't complain about the rain anymore. The weather's not too hot anymore. Work isn't taxing anymore. And the hours aren't too short anymore. No, you're not in love. But in the prospect of being.

What happens when you've known someone for two years of your life, not so intimately, but intimate by default. And one morning they're changing the way you look at Bombay monsoons, or determining how many fits of rage, how many bouts of tears, how many shocks of happiness you're entitled to in a day. Or two. Or more.

You might want to get out of the situation. You might want to stay. But it's not upto you anymore. And when it was, you didn't even know you were in the situation.

I don't remember things being this complicated when I was sixteen. Then why do you lie to me and tell me that this is going to be just as if we were sixteen?

All I want to do is hold your hand, when no one's watching, snuggle upto you after a much too intoxicated night, watch every little movement of yours, while you stay focused on Paranormal Activity, with your arm tightly wrapped around my stomach. Watch you whisper to me that I'm beautiful, at the break of dawn. Lie, just for a cup of coffee, benson lights, and you. Steal, looks and smiles, and private dances, in a crowded club. Exchange lives, exchange breaths, exchange souls and still stay intact.

Has it really been a week? It feels like a lifetime. Much too long for you to have been an impervious backdrop to the scenes in my reel of life and not have said a word until now.

Then why is it that when you chose to speak, and step out of every little frame of anonymity, to finally make me see you, you also brought with yourself a window to my old life, the ghosts that refuse to stop haunting. I want you without the memory of my mistakes. I want you without you being hurt or scared, of being you again. I want you, fearless.

I want you, and I don't register the thoughts of others, because when I look at you, I hear laughter, and a friendship, that at least in my head, I forged when I was sixteen.

If only I'd met you then. If only I'd stopped myself. But you're in ink now. And I'm too far along.