08302011

she comes to me

in the dead hours of the night

she comes

and not for the first time

she has been coming to me

telling me things

telling me truths

telling me fictions

filling me with words and thoughts

of who she is and what she wants to be

answering my questions

while i sleep

while i wake

while i do

whispering to me

bring me alive

i feel her urgency inside me

this woman who has been living in my thoughts

for days. for weeks. for months.

i feel her urgency to be born. to emerge.

to be released

limbs of flesh and blood and bone

splayed across both earth and sky

i birthed her last night

and this morning

on a new day

she inhabits pages of script

beloved and bled

from agonizing mind and quivering fingers

pages bled in the blindness of night

and she tells me she wishes to inhabit

more and more and more

what can i do but oblige?

i am alive

and

she is alive

and

i am her creator

08292011

she spoke of bliss.

and while she spoke, i drifted in my own thoughts, her voice a blanket for my mental wanderings. but then she paused, abruptly, while taking a deep breath filled with palpable nostalgia. 

i asked her, what do you think is the color of bliss?

she looked at me, baffled and confused. does bliss have a color? she said, her face giving her away completely. giving away how superficially, how shallowly, she had taken my question. 

how rudimentary! i thought. how elementary! and, though i knew it would challenge her further with too much responsibility, i said, let’s put it like this: if bliss had a color… if… what would you say that color is?

she regarded me with frustration, caution.

and i bit my tongue while baulking at my own delusion. or was that sanctimoniousness?

or… was it simple naïveté?

08252011

i like to talk

in the blue hours of night

while the moon sits

upon a throne of stars

waiting to receive my tales

and glowing at my telling

and last night, we sat

the moon and i

and she said to me

i adore what you sing, dear

those sweet soliloquies

you think i don’t hear

now story me more

of your delicious fancies

and i will twine your fingers

and i will spark your eyes

and i will crown your spirit

with new inspiration

08222011

another unsent letter…

Dear I.,

I went to sleep last night thinking, There, I’ve gone and done it again! I chided myself for not saying what I meant… what I wanted… to say. And all along the words were waiting on the tip of my tongue… waiting for me to part my lips and release them.

Do you know the feeling inside that moment? When you want to say something and you’ve got it right there on the tip of your tongue? And you just know that this time… this time… you will say it… but then something else comes out? It’s as if another’s voice has possessed your spirit… and is stealing your breath… and is speaking through your lips… and is stealing your soul. It’s the feeling of impotence that is most breaking, in that moment. The feeling that you should be doing something… could be doing something… but you’re not… because you can’t. No. Because you won’t!

How do I make time go back so I can say to you what I needed to say? These words are frozen inside my throat. But… if it were possible for time to go back… even then… mine would be a fabricated… forced… staged statement.

I stage scenarios inside my head, and when the instant comes to execute them… I execute them, in the true sense of the word ‘execute.’ I murder the act before it is born. And I am left with my hands parted in wordless dejection.

Will you ever forgive me? I will never forgive you if you do.

Fondly,
N.

08212011

let it be mine

the thought that’s born

inside my bones

let it look like me

taste of my flesh, my blood

and smell of my skin

let it be like nobody else’s

that i might call it

MINE

let it always be pure

let it always be true

let it always be me

08182011

certain mornings

i awaken

with skin

glowing brighter

with a new discovery

having breathed

a new air

having undergone

a new excavation

of self