Love

Calming Storms

Dock your ship 

On my furious shores 

Let not the waves steer you off 

To play-safe distances 

Choose my madness 

Cradle my chaos 

For when I am silent, unobtrusive

Calm –

My peace will leave you wanting. 

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Take a Number

My neck cranes past the long queue

The discomfort is bearable, or so I tell myself

 

For a second, I am in doubt

Surely, there must be some mistake – must I really take a number?

My neighbors rub against my shoulders uncomfortably

I’m wedged in between “late night meetings” and “bank errands”

I make myself smaller, compact – as I make more room for them

 

Suddenly, the lights are closing, the place is packing up

A neon sign brightens in the tunneling darkness,

The light hums

“SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED”, it read.

 

So I stood, left empty-handed

Discarded the late night musings, the dinner plans

 

I crawled into bed

Tired bones pressed heavy against the mattress.

Letting out an audible sigh

But the air was thick with silence

 

It was all bearable

Or so I tell myself.

The Pursuit of Evasive Things

The Pursuit of Evasive Things

Sometimes you have to wonder how
we can want the things we want
in the unapologetic way that we do.

A violent stirring
in the depths of our being;
our insides reeling
with an insatiable restlessness.
A wanting that quickly rises
to the surface of our skins;
Piercing and determined to make itself known.

But it’s almost as if they heard us-
Feet heavy and eager
An audible lunge towards our prey

Their eyes widen;
Startled by our hunger,
they hastily take flight.

And again, leaving us wanting.

Even if they are evasive as ever.

But what is life’s purpose if not to chase after our passions?
What are the steps we take for if not to bring us closer

And farther

And closer

Until suddenly.

The dust settles.
The planets align.
The time is right.

And what was once evasive
Perpetually keeping their distance
Beyond arm’s reach
Is finally nestled calmly and perfectly
in the palm of our hands.

In Love with (the Idea of) You

I’m in love with the idea of you.

For the longest time, I’ve been spreading myself thin trying to understand it – how you can only love the mental outline of the person you used to know like the back of your hand. Whose habits you have memorized, whose peeves you’ve mastered and skillfully dodged like mines in a field, whose features you’ve committed to memory like the map to your favorite city. From that disobedient twirl of hair, to the crook of a smile the constellation of freckles, the exact number of tequila shots it’ll take before her cheeks start to flush fervently.

I used to love so many things about you. Especially the ones that others didn’t know about. Over time, I found that your vulnerabilities were just as beautiful as your strengths.

I loved our conversations – the ones we’d have over breakfast, in quiet parks, in that 30-second stoplight.

I loved your jokes, even those that weren’t particularly funny but you deliver the punchline with so much conviction that it deserved the consolation. I loved your habits, your ragged penmanship, that knowing smile that reaches your eyes when I’m just a few seconds shy of forgiving you. I loved how you slurred your speech when you’re too sleepy to talk, vomiting gibberish in low murmurs. I love how in a sea of monotonous routines, you were playfully unpredictable. You couldn’t bore me even if you tried. 

I loved how you eagerly shared with me the things you loved – and I remember the warmth I felt when I would see you sigh with happiness. With Contentment. But were you? Because I was.

And so I loved you until it was easy to talk about you in the past tense. Until logic tamed emotions. Until the heart firmly understood the difference from what it wants to what it cannot have.

Now, I only love the idea of you. I love the poetry that your memories evoke. The words that gather at the bottom of my feet, slowly pooling up to my ankles like vines – begging to be written. But it ends there.

Now, you are just a muse in my art, to be displayed for all seasons in my gallery of secret regrets. I will revive you in a million ways. I will sculpt you in how I see fit. You are a mere idea. To be re-written over and over.  One story with a thousand permutations. With no definitiveness. No spine nor structure. I will rewrite you over and over because I’m in love with the idea of you. Formless, boundless, infinite you.

 

 

To Ricochet Between Remembering and Forgetting

When I remember you, I remember you in bits and pieces; like unfinished sentences.

Like a poorly crafted movie that knows no fluidity of transition, there was nothing elegantly seamless about it. In fact, you could see the clear edges, the abrupt punctuation. It is not like a gradient where the cobalt sea melts with the teal of the sky, but rather, a series of ricocheting between remembering and forgetting, remembering and forgetting.

Laughter. Drive-thru’s past midnight. I don’t remember enjoying a fudge sundae that much, and I don’t even fancy ice cream.

An argument – to agree to disagree on 80’s music and peanut butter.

Late night mundane talks. “I had a really crappy day.” “Tell me about it.”

Apologies. “I can’t go to bed mad at you.”

Long drives. That priceless look on you when you go passed the speed limit. 

Moments of pride. “Fine.”

A pause. The hint of a smile that grew from the corner of your mouth.  “I love you”, you exhaled.

I remember seconds of you, seconds of me, seconds of us. Fragments that I have never been able to play as a whole. 

You weren’t a blur, but rather, a recurring clarity. 

The Constant

“I write because you exist.” – Michael Faudet

I’d always imagined what I would have done if you had changed your mind. An indecision made in haste, a miscalculated conclusion. I imagined what I would do if you had come back, a litany of apologies spilling relentlessly from your lips. I imagined it would be like sand in my palms, quickly falling through the spaces of my fingers. I’d forget all your flaws and faults in a heartbeat. I loved you with a tiring persistence. And I chose you everyday. It was like a mechanical fountain, a metronome. My love for you was as constant as these. Predictable, monotonous. Dulled by other things in life, but it was a distinct sound when things would fall silent.