Lyrical

And the music moves into my body –

It spreads through my veins and carries me with it;

Without my knowing,

It leads me out of stillness.

With a foot slowly tapping,

I move into the music,

Blossoming with the chorus.

The melody takes off at its peak,

And soars,

As I expand with its wings

Before shrinking into the next stanza.

The melody is fluid,

Infusing my movements with flow,

But the heart beat of the song has taken over my own,

My body understands the secret of rhythm,

And the beat becomes the skeleton of my movements,

Not constricted by it;

But structured by it,

Guided by it.

 

The voices of the singers dance on their own,

Supported by the instrumental flooring.

My heart leaps with joy

As the voices spiral upwards into each other to explode into sparks.

 

The music has me as it ebbs and flows,

The melody and I are inexplicably intertwined.

And so, as it fades,

So does my dance,

As the melody recedes into the expanse of silence before me,

Until it is only in my arms,

At my fingertips,

Until it is finally gone.

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Comfort(er)

I belong to the bed.

It cannot be any other way.

It has never been any other way.

My skin sighs in delight as it sinks deeper into the warm softness of the mattress.

I swear, there is something holding me down; a weight in my right knee, a heaviness in my eyes, a yawn waiting in my cheeks to push my mouth open before setting it back into comfort.

Sleep is not a shout that strikes me down, or a demand I must fulfill; it is only a sweet whispered request now, and I am more than happy to oblige.

The blanket draped over me, embraces my legs with warmth.

How could I possibly leave?

My mother hugs me, allowing me to curl against her small body, her hand a welcome dry warmth that is tracing patterns on my face.

We breathe in rhythm, my exhale matching her inhale.

She looks at me peacefully – or maybe sleepily (the two are not very different when it comes to my mother; a slight sleepiness infuses her with Buddha-like tranquility as she sits comfortably in the dining room chair as we leave for school, in her black-red sleeveless vest smiling compassionately upon all other frenzied mortals of the material world), smiling.

I ask her if she is rejoicing my growth into a beautiful young woman, and she sweetly remarks that she was simply analysing the trend of pimples across my face.

Mothers will be mothers.

A shuffling of her feet tell me her plans to leave, and in doing so, she takes the liberty to wrench all the curtains wide open.

I burrow myself against the mattress-for just a bit longer, visualising the willpower it takes to leave, so that I may prepare myself to wake up, stirring back to awareness when the irrational started creeping into my encouraging imagination, pushing me deeper to sleep.

I open my eyes to grey skies, and everything touched by warm golden light, the sun an overeager child amidst grim adults.

As I tuck nothingness back into my bed, I bid it adieu.

Till tonight, my love.

Of 24th January 2017

If my apartment had an eighteenth floor, I think I could have touched the stars.

The sky’s inky depths no longer scare me,

They are no longer a reminder of the vastness of the space we live in,

No longer a reminder of our sheer insignificance.

The deep colour only shows me the warmth of the sky,

It’s my own personal blanket,

Sphering over us to create a marble of safety.

 

The wind is my lover,

And it is not the hesitant aqcuaintaince of a breeze I met a few days ago.

It loves me, and is confident of it,

As it showers kisses across my face,

And dances with my hair,

Making me laugh in its excitement.

I can almost catch it, if I just – stretch – high – enough.

I lunge into the breeze,

Almost wishing to fall,

If it means the breeze is willing to catch me.

 

Laughter lives at the tip of my tongue,

An unexpected but pleasant visitor that arrives in bursts,

Or bubbles out of my lips

For the simplest of reasons,

Or no reason at all.

 

My breath has forgotten what it means to catch,

My heart has forgotten what it means to race.

They work in synchronisation,

My breathing effortless, and full in its effortlessness.

 

Often,

Tucked into bed,

My left foot twitching against the coolness of the mattress,

Burrowing into the softness as far as I could, without becoming the mattress itself,

My heart makes its thuds heard,

And I count them,

Remembering that they are finite,

That one day, my heart will give away.

And I let the thrill of panic travel along the length of my body before I fall asleep.

But today,

My heart makes its beats heard,

It takes so much energy to live, to stay alive,

Energy that I have.

 

The whimper on my best friend’s lips earns her a kiss on the cheek,

As she tries to convince me to listen to her.

Our arms are locked,

My sweatshirt sleeve tucked around the elbow of hers,

And I drag her along as I dance with the wind,

Physically close to her,

But my heart flying -flying – flying out to touch the stars.

 

Poet’s note: I think I was happy yesterday ­čÖé Tell me what you think

Evenings

The sun is leaving and it is determined to touch everything that it can.

It starts the day with its best,

Reaching out to personally touch every individual cloud that a person can see,

Brushing them with faint pinks and modest golds

And leaving the sky a crisp, untouched blue –

The sort that could be your sole reason for waking up,

The sort that makes any drab landscape look better,

It looks beautiful on its own,

Before the sun takes its place in the sky.

 

And then it stagnates,

Or perhaps it doesn’t.

But the shadows don’t move from where I can see them,

I can’t even see the sun –

Just the brightness it leaves –

The natural whiteness it leaves.

The leaves on the tree dark-green majestically,

The stones on the footpath maroon with clarity as they wind around my building,

Saaris cotton-blue and nylon-pink,

My father’s face brown-wrinkles to perfection.

 

And it leaves us in a suspended afternoon,

As though it will shine forever,

The day won’t ever end,

Before it does.

 

The sun withdraws suddenly,

And ironically floods itself through every glass opening we have –

Every balcony, every window, through the holes in the carvings that hang from the walls.

 

It’s not even the white-golden I like,

It’s orange-golden,

It means goodbye.

 

The sun takes the warmth with it,

Leaving the ends of my body frozen,

Its light just as frozen, as distant, as leaving.

It bounces cruelly off of the windows –

Inaccessible and beautiful all the same.

 

Soon it will shrink, and shrink the colours around it,

Until it is concentrated gold

That magnifies every cloud it touches,

The sky is a lighter blue,

A used-and-done blue,

A pale imitation of the morning I will see tomorrow.