sonder

 

labyrinth: mice in a maze

 

harbor

 

muzzle

 

'something on my mind'

 

circling back to square one

 

in a world of tinder, a bit of ember.

last night
i went to bed 

with ember

i was cold and blue
and i needed some warmth

i may be guilty
of holding her a bit too close
a bit too tight

but i guess
it was 

that kind of night

but there was this one thing
about ember
i had forgotten

you could never be too sure
if it was

distance or proximity
that she sought

too close 

would mean suffocation

too much space,

a blaze.

burden of a shadow

 

a growing habit

 

believe

home is a point in infinity

i used to see a home
at the deep end of this road

it's been a while
now
i've been walking
for quite sometime now

cutting
miles after miles
now


my feet have become
battered oars
that have seen
seas at their roughest
and their unkindest
for sometime now

i used to see a home

it's been a while now


the topography
and the texture
and the nature
of the earth
beneath my soles
keep changing

but the home i see
stays fixed
at some distant point
in infinity

and i've kept walking towards it ever since
i first saw
it's been a while now

there have been times
when i have thought
should i stop walking
and just lie down now

but the side of a road
the feet of a moutain
the womb of a valley
the duvet of the desert
and dreams
made out of the night sky and the
invisible daytime stars
aren't exactly home now

not the home
i see
at the deep end of this road

and it's been a while now

i carry the fear
i carry
the weight of the thought
the weight of its absence
now

it's been a while now

the home fixed at some
distant point in infinity
at the deep end of this road

and i've been walking towards it
for sometime now

home has become
synonymous
to
walking towards
the
home
at the deep end of this road
now

home
has become
cutting
miles after miles
now

home
has become
my feet
now

sea worn
spirit torn
battered oars
now

home
has become
a while
now

home
has taken
a while
now

awake, i am safe.

safe
when i am
awake

it is sleep
i am careful
not to slip into

lest something
that is now and present
slip away

awake
i am safe
sleep, i dread
and all that
follows

dreams, maybe
nightmares, why not
and time

time
timed
and time in a hurry
like time
losing out on time

time
timed out
and mistimed
rapid eye movement
with vacant
stagnant pupils
and iris
fluttering
like a trapped butterfly
shedding its colours
leaving colours behind on
uncaring callous
fingertips

sleep
sleep i dread

awake
i am safe

a love letter

it has been too long

my fingers do not remember how to hold a pen

and write.

there is some ancient muscle memory

but as memories very often are

this one too is feeble

weak. weak is what it is.

this is supposed to be a love letter

but my heart is heavy.

that perhaps is a good thing.

perhaps the most honest and real and true

love letters can only be written with a heavy heart

and by those who are in possession of one.

this heaviness focusses me.

it numbs me to every sight, sound, scent and sensation lurking around.

this heaviness forces me to only pay attention to this singular, dull throb. somewhere to the left of centre of my being.

a steady, dull throb. like a primitive tribal beat.

and in that dull, steady, unwavering primitive throb, i find my true primitive self.

in that throb of a moment, i become the beat and the drum.

dried leather pulled forcefully over a coarse, unpolished, unrefined wooden tube. hastily stitched up at both ends.

the leather isn't taut and shiny. it is loose. and it is wrinkly.

it is indifferent.

it is me.

i am the throb and the beat.

i am the primitive tribal drum.

i am the catalyst and i am the action and the cause.

i am the reaction. i am the chain of events set into motion.

i am the hand that strikes and i am the sound which emanates.

i am controlled and i am the crescendo.

but

this is supposed to be a love letter.

yet i am with a heavy heart as i write this.

perhaps the most honest and real and true love letters can only be written with a heavy heart.

nonetheless, this is a love letter. from me to you.

and yet in this instant throb of a persistent moment, i am going to write and think about me.

it is only fair that i get to know me

before i claim to love you.

this is supposed to be a love letter

unlike any other ever written.

this is a love letter that will 

end

up being just like all the innumerable ones

that were never written.

never written.

only recited in the minds of people

who only ever partially existed for themselves.

written in the mind of that which lies to the left of centre.

written in the mind of that which lies.

lies and hides.

and the more it does the more it reveals.

ashes

i burn my home down
and i sit and watch
as it goes up in flames

i sit and watch
till it turns
to ashes

i burn my home down
the flaming torch
to my cold, blue, winter games

a handful of ash
i pocket
some
i smear on my forehead

for years
for a lifetime
my home
housed me

and
now

in my pocket
and rubbed into
the lines on my forehead
i carry it around

i am
sullied
and baptized
i am
homeless
and without walls

i am
my home
i
burnt down

brimful

you do not write much
you do not write too often
but when you do
those two
words
that you write
i gather them

i hold them
those two words
with the exact same care
that i
gather air
i hold them
like i would 
collect a stream of fresh water

in the hollow base of my palm

i take
your two words
and fill balloons with them
words, words like helium
filled in balloons
of pastel shades
balloons made out of satin
tied down
with silk threads
to a mahogany writing table

those two words
that you write
around which
every other thing
stays 
yet
fades
becomes
conspicuous
by its absence
stands out
like people around us
would
in the plains of
invisibility

those two words
you write
are like you
like the morning dew
like grains of sand
like scent of an ocean
like a scarf
made out of
the summer sky
wrapped around
an august neck

those two words
you write
are like you
like
crystal cubes of
saccharine
melting away

like
you
who i gather 
in little
smooth
shape shifting
coffee cups

you
who
do not write much
you
who
do not write too often

but when you do...

a tree. the wilderness and an infinite infinity.

when we get tired

wondering about

wandering in

this infinite space

i will find us a tree

a tree by the lake

willingly offering

some shade

we'll stand underneath it

for a bit

appreciating

smiling

grinning

like two content fools

we'll stand for a bit

and let the leaves fall

leaves that gave 

into the gentle

tempting caresses of

the breeze

a breeze with the heart of a wind

a wind with the legs of a windstorm

causing flutters

and sensations

in us

ground up

starting from the sole

of our feet

weakening our knees

tracing the tremble

on our thighs

sucked in

sucked in by our hungry

abdominal cavities

stoking the fire in our

quicksilver bellies

warming our breaths

clasping our chests

measuring our gasps

disrobing our sights

untying us

from our forbidden selves

over us

all over us

like confetti

yes

we'll stand

for a bit

underneath that tree

and then

we shall

sit

rest

for a bit

and then

when

we feel like it again

we'll

start
wondering about

we'll start
wandering in

the wilderness

of this

infinite space