The love you think you deserve.

He is broken. It is pretty obvious if you know how to read the signs. When we’re in company, he gets this blank look on his face and becomes real quiet, and stupid jokes don’t seem funny to him anymore. Just stupid. He’ll never tell you what’s wrong. That, I think, must be the biggest giveaway of all. Because he doesn’t want to complain, to hurt anyone over the fact that he had gall enough to speak against about what or who hurt him.
Truth is, you deserve restful sleep every night, coffee at 7am in the morning, a kiss on your forehead every time you step into home, vanilla scented baths and poetry that reminds you of the orange leaves strewn across the roadside in autumn or a dusky, starry night over blue-green shimmery waters. You deserve to be serenaded with violins, to have the pleasure of a first dance, hands that soothe away the stress from your body, gentle kisses that feel like balm to your lips, the antidote to all your poison. You deserve warm, freshly cleaned sheets when you step out of the shower, cuddles that make you feel like you’re home, a lover’s lap you can bury your head into, talks that read out like a magnificent piece of prose, and boy, believe me, I can go on but nothing I say can convince you otherwise unless you decide to believe it. He doesnt want to feel like a burden, he says. Someone tell that silly boy to stop being apologetic, stop swallowing down every hurt that comes your way, do not bottle up your voice boy, make yourself be heard, demand it. You deserve it.


Does it hurt?

I always wait, eagerly,
For his hands to pull me closer to him
His arms around me tight enough that
I feel like one single piece, molten gold
Instead of disjointed bits welded together
Bits and chunks loosening up, worn out from unyielding pressure, changing shape, losing sparkle
I revel in the feeling of abandoning my armour in his reassuring, tender self,
Transformed into a treasure.
And I never seem to remember he has scars of his own where the darkness seeps through
Because they are so well kept out of sight.
I’m afraid to touch him, because
He recoils away from it
And I always thought it was because he was too strong for that nonsense,
It was only because he didn’t want to feel weak or vulnerable.
Tell me where it hurts you,
You don’t have to raise your fists up at me.
I come in peace, not looking for war.
Tell me where it hurts,
I cant do much than clean the wound for you.
It will still be there, but it will heal over time.
Instead of festering inside of you.
And when it starts to heal, you can bet I’m keeping your hands away from picking at the scabs.
And when it has healed, and faded away,
Do not recoil from my touch,
I do not hold a knife behind my back.
My clothes are strewn by the doorway.
My armour has been cast off.
Allow yourself to feel, what you have been holding back so long.
And don’t be afraid of moulding yourself to my fingertips,
But for that, darling
You must show me where it hurts.


Darling, I know its hard
Not to fall down on your knees,
Takes all your willpower not to disintegrate,
To stop yourself from screaming at the sky.
To unleash all the residue that’s been building up for ages.
I know its hard
When you take a glimpse in the mirror,
And you stand transfixed,
Because you thought you saw something you shouldn’t have seen in the doorway of the room behind you.
Or on the bed, in the chair, or in the girl that passes by on the street.
You bring your fingers to your lips,
“This is where she touched me.
And here, and here..”
Absently tracing out a map on your body,
And when you stop at the final spot
Wanting nothing more than to escape from the skin you’re in,
Even for a day,
Because the marks that were left on you still remain, just hidden out of plain sight.
And you’re the only one that can see them,
Even though you dont want to, anymore.
All you want is to forget the first time you pulled down your collar,
Spotted red blossoming along the curve of your neck, and below that, and below that.
Darling, I know its hard,
Seeing the world through different eyes.
Than what they grew accustomed to,
In shades of black and white, or perhaps eternally gray,
Instead of purple hues, or rosy pinks,
Deep reds or bright yellows.
Or stumbling upon pictures of me, of us.
And those letters, small keepsakes, birthday gifts, anniversary gifts, unbirthday gifts,
Throw them away if they hurt to look at, darling,
They do you more harm than good.
Its hard, I know, to look into eyes filled to the brim with pity,
But you must raise your head high, darling.
Meet their glances with a defiant eye.
And let nobody see you after the clocks strike midnight.
I know its hard,
But darling, you must try,
You have no other choice.

I could’ve sworn..

The devil is at it again,
Playing tricks on me past midnight,
I could’ve sworn I heard your whispers,
Circle my head as I stared into the light,
Thrown by the shabby lamp on an equally destitute rug.
I could’ve sworn I heard you murmuring,
As you sleep, restlessly, agitated,
Tortured by several years of pent-up emotions,
Cloaked, repressed thoughts, and I waited,
In vain, but no voice took my name, no hand sought for mine.
I licked my lips, as the first unseen wound started to open,
They tasted like salt, like remnant tears, like blood leftover,
Of all the words unspoken,
And then, I tasted you, and it was hard to stay sober,
When I was so earnest to fall drunk under your influence.
I wonder if I had told you enough times,
Of how much I love you,
You, who embodied perfection, in the most imperfect way possible,
You, from whose thoughts I eschew.

I remember.

(Purely an original work of fiction).

 It was cold, bitterly cold that I could feel down to the tips of my gloved fingers and reaching into my very soul. Far away, a full moon shined down at me, surrounding me in its magical, mysterious white light. Silence was all around, except for the whispering wind in the trees and the water from the stream quietly whooshing. It was the sound of a cold winter’s night. He had sat next to me, right at this bench, in the dead of a winter night. Everything had been so peaceful and safe in his warm embrace, protection against the cold and away from the rest of the busy world. It had been so quiet that night that I could clearly remember his breathing, his even, calm breathing that seemed to pierce the night like a glass that hits the floor and cracks its perfection, right before breaking into a million pieces. It was then that we had decided, just when the clock struck 8, to make a solemn promise, to visit this beautiful secluded place on this date every year, to remember all the memories we had, at this place we had declared ours. I could still recall every inch of his features on that particular night, how they had looked in the moonlight and how his eyes had glittered when he stared up at the moon broodingly and then at me. I couldn’t say a single word. I could just stare at his perfection, sometimes openly, mostly covertly. That tangled mess of a hair he so despised, and kept impatiently brushing off his forehead, stormy eyebrows and deep solemn eyes that lighted up with an internal fire when he became passionate about something. Perfectly straight nose and those lusciously curved lips that could stretch into a smile that seemed as if he had seen his beloved after a thousand years of waiting. Oh yes, I remember his soft hand shyly touching mine, as if afraid I would disintegrate into pieces like paper exposed to water. He turned his eyes to me, catching me in the act of memorizing his every flaw and perfection. That brilliant smile lit up his face, and I could see all my love for him mirrored in that single smile. Without a word, he pressed his lips against my forehead, and I could feel his embrace tighten ever so slightly. I understood the wordless communication. That was one of those things amazing between us, the ability to communicate without words. Afraid to break the silence, I touched my fingers to my lips and then to his. He closed his eyes and nodded. Satisfied, I rested against his shoulder once more before getting up to leave. Staring down at him, I could never have imagined I was not destined to see that face again. The pain I had been feeling at that parting was nothing compared to when I found out he will be gone forever, snatched by cruel, hungry Death. The sudden wind snapped me out of my reverie. I realized I had tracks left over from tears that had fallen when? I knew not. I sighed. The breeze started up again, and I rested my head and closed my eyes. I have been doing this for a while now, whenever the breeze starts up. You see, I can feel his fingers softly running over my cheeks, drying up my left over tears, and in that wind, I can hear his breathing, from so long ago. On normal days, I barely manage to remember these little tiny details, but here in this place, I remember everything, as clear as if it was yesterday. The wind dies, my eyes snap open and I look back up at the moon, and I could swear, I could swear it, for a moment I was back in time, and he had just whispered to me, “I never would have thought I deserve someone more beautiful than the moon itself,” and I could feel myself falling in love all over again, as I do every year, at this place, in this moment of time. This moment is infinite.

An original prose.

Coffee. He used to drink coffee. Huddled in front of a fire in the dead of December nights, thoughtful eyes absorbed in looking at pictures from a time gone by while my pleas for him to come to bed fell on deaf years. I’d wrap my arms around his shoulders but he didn’t seem to notice, so after a short while, I’d leave. Later on, it would be part of his daily routine when he’d wake up and kiss me brusquely, then get out of bed and make his usual morning coffee, his daily fix. He’d always add the same amount of milk and water, always the 2 spoonfuls of sugar, while I’d roll over to his side of the bed, still warm and still smelling of his scent, while he got dressed and left the house without so much as a backward glance. In the early days, he lovingly used to make some for me, daily in the autumn evenings, even though he knew i had no penchant for it like he did, and we’d sit outside in our little balcony, him in his favourite wicker chair, and me snuggled up in his lap and bundled up in blankets, our own little world. We’d each have our own mugs of coffee that he had made even though he knew well my preference for tea, and we’d make jokes and share our coffee flavoured kisses, and silently thanked our good fortune, and for each other.
Somewhere along the line, when life’s sorrows had dragged him down to a place where even I couldn’t reach out to him, we stopped having our fall coffee rituals together, but he’d still make his own, every day, fall or otherwise, without fail. In hindsight, I think he was hanging on to memories gone by, wanting the time where all was carefree and love and joy, but knowing he couldn’t reverse time, he stuck to the one thing that reminded him of it; coffee. I don’t know when our lives became so loveless, soulless, but I do know, God-willing, I am ready as ever to give it another try, because I still love the person he is just as I did years ago. Every December night I will get out of bed and, surrounded by freezing cold, implore him to come to bed in the hopes to make him realise he still has me, but all he hears, are hollowed out promises of an old love gone by.