Green waves dilute and deepen in the front yard
I like the assortment of plants
I joke, will you skip me like a YouTube ad?
We chuckle. I'm funny, we agree
She says she'll miss me
And I will
But I reassure, it's just a new year
Sadly(?), not a new me
I can go on about the book I'm reading
She calls me a beautiful kid
I smile, knowing she's lonely
I keep taking advantage of it
There's nothing new about something new
There's nothing new to feel
I enjoy the chant of daily TV
There's nothing new I want to be.
Tag: feelings
Virtually yours
The screen flashes into ecstatic noises I throw a pillow to suffocate it and it groans It’s a new smartphone, but no wonder not wise Did he say yes, or no? The notifications lie stagnant under the pillow My heart’s beating loud and I’m warm So is my phone Under the pillow it waits for my expectant palm I can’t bear to take it out but I stare at it My entire room throbbing in anticipation Even the lizard on the wall pauses to take a look And I start to lose all my patience Yes, yes! He likes me too Oh, to be online and in love! I kiss the screen And start typing It’s virtual, but real enough.
Teacher
My childhood was inside books-
Fairy tales and detective stories;
Tonight when the city dies another death
I clutch at my laptop
I look up those books
But I can’t go back to my grandmother’s old apartment and get them
I can’t go back to
When I was not more than three feet high
When I felt pretty
And the green grass called me
It doesn’t, anymore
How strange it is that the grass loses voice
And I lose mine
I was nine but my little palm
Could hold a world of confidence
I trapped it in my fist and placed it on my hips
I wore my blue frock and posed
And I thought the world was mine
Now I think I was stupid
Now I know I was happy
Now I know, it’s childhood
The grass, the sky, the trees, the roads,
Hell, even the streetlights after rain
They’ve all lost their voices
My old books lie dead
Do they miss a blue-frocked girl?
But I miss her
She didn’t care about the bad days she had
She was me, some day.
Now, just a third person pronoun I can’t reach
I’ll allow myself some tears
While wishing she were here
She has a lot that she could teach.
Diary of a middle-schooler
“Take off my glasses
My eyes will hold your gaze
We both know it’s been ages
But it’s not about the days
That are gone; it’s only about you,
About us, and your shy confidence,
My bewilderment at your beauty,
My love for you, which had no ends
But which carried on in sorrow –
I have loved you still, as I did
Yesterday, and will, tomorrow.”
Once I thought I’d tell you this
(Years later, when we meet again)
When I’d known you’d never be mine
And wrote these verses in my pain.
Do you remember me, as I remember you?
However, I won’t pretend, I know it’s not true-
I remember only what I thought you were,
My infatuating dream,
The boy with sharp eyes and untidy hair-
You were more than him.
You had your flaws and a snobbish air
But of course I didn’t care
You talked to me once and I flew high
I never even questioned why-
You were the supreme,
You were my dream.
I know you’re not the dream I built
You’re just some pretty guy who’s smart
But what you made me feel sometime
Is what told me I had a heart.
Burial
I think I’m dying
My smiling face in the polaroid
That I left behind in your heart
Is losing its colours and I
Am out of focus
I multiplied my two arms
Into thousands
Hand-in-hand like a mesh
The thatched wall of blood and flesh
Is crumbling and
I’m scattered all over
How do I protect you now?
Your lips have forgotten to sting
At the strike of my name
Oh how easily now
They’re just vowels and consonants
I think I have indeed
Begun to end.
Bury me when the sun finally sets
I’ll leave the rope of my long hair
For you
Not as a reminder to forget
But to secure the ones who come next spring
Bury me now
Bury me
So that I can bury you well.
Sunday Afternoon
Give me a Sunday afternoon Of noiseless naps and comforting silence. I'll compare the blue of the walls next door With the blue of the sky With the blue of my veins and the blue of my smile. It will take me a while. The ceiling fan above my head May go round and round But not the hands of the clock. Please, make the time stop; I will give you my nightly sighs I will give you my evening laughs Give me a Sunday afternoon And it will, maybe, be enough.
mimimusing 