Ireland

come with me

and leave for a while the world 

that finds it so easy to forget you

At Dawn We'd be in Ireland

Me, where I am, with you in my mind

in a plane that relies on my command

on when to fly and when to land 

or when to fall

beyond the wall of clouds

I hear the invisible ticking of that digital clock

dots appearing in liquid air 

reminding us that this won't last

as much as we need it to

as much as I need it to

Exactly like how time is never enough 
where we used to be

where we always return

where we are trapped 

immobile in that cruel joke

Life should be the dream

and we escape by waking up to this:

chaos and colors smiling in perfect harmony

in seats suspended a thousand miles above land

flying not in worry nor uncertainty

your hand resting on my hand

Ireland below us

three moons above us

in a purple sky with blue stars 

here

Where we are always safe

where peace in me is what you find

where I can always read your mind

Where it happens all at once

where time we never had and time we will have

are all present in this moment
that stretches to the ends of infinity

and laughter is laughter that never retires

and tears are merely tears never stained with fear

no thoughts of leaving and being left behind

no thoughts of keeping and being kept aside

Where you look into my eyes

and you see your eyes 
reflecting the secrets of my soul

stories that only you can bear to contain

without judgement or effort

because my stories are your stories

here, where you and me

are one and the same

your hand resting on my hand

The universe smiling above us

Ireland below us,

patiently waiting

until its time for me 

to wake up.

nostalgia

I long to be able to listen
to songs i used to love
without apparitions of moments
tainted by the intensity
of your memory


oh! to be cured of you
and the light of your extremes


where no fragrance is off limits-
where pleasant scents
are not betrayals
but smiles waiting to blossom
no nostalgia to wrestle with,
no deep inhaling and closing of the eyes
revealing confusing hopes of reliving
refusing, inviting


refusing
inviting


oh! to be cured of you
and the light of your extremes


where the pleasant past is not a myth
where senses are not stolen
traded to a bitter future void of warm sensation
void of truth, sound and hue
void of you.

to be full of hope once more

to live, breathe, taste and feel

the little remaining of my fleeting youth

to once again be drunk with life

and everything I once held true

oh! to be cured of you
and the light of your extremes.

Headphonaut

I.

when you told me then, that you were 34
and that you looked at the stars for comfort
your voice caused an invisible blanket
of intense unsettling energy
to swirl into existence
suddenly appearing through the air from nothingness
its unseen colors lingering a bit
before tickling my ear and entering my head
a doubt-killing arrow
whose fingers shocked my brain into sudden alertness

I could bridge the gap of 10 years.
10 years would be easy.

I could add beauty and color in your projected gray life

I could be your salt.

laugh-er and listener extraordinaire
the fresh pure breeze of youth you seem to always feel you've lost
contrast to the chaos you've lived to rant about
to write about

maybe I could amuse, or better yet, amaze you
and enter the hourglass of your life,
wedging myself in the middle, to block the falling sand
disarm you with wit I thought I knew I had


II.

You are 36.
and 10 years seem to stretch farther and farther
you move too fast, and I can't keep up

you and me,
we are in this space
where time is nothing but distance.

as I remember,
a mosaic of sharpened dull emotions shape-shifts

unfounded optimism
unbearable lightness
shy, certain, earnest confidence

is now a montage of moments
moving inside this archaic analog film
playing on a slow loop inside my head
slow enough that I can count each hole on its sides
slow enough that each divider is not a divider
but prison bars in a lonely cell

slower so I can analyze and analyze
so slow it stopped making sense
so slow
that
I am
trapped

bound in the infinite frames
of an endless instant

night meditation

there is darkness
and the lone voice of a teacher miles away
preaching presence and stillness,
the importance of nothingness-
hidden in the background I hear him
sometimes
I even listen

he hails emptiness
and slightly, I am proud-
It's all I have

beforehand
I saved a few minutes
going through the rounds
desperately searching for that
which may comfort my frozen soul

pain
pleasure
sticks and music
you.
in this space where you once were

sometimes
when there is kindness and mercy
I drift to that place
where I am almost asleep
and I am beside you

sometimes
I feel the night finally embracing me
before I feel it slip through my tired fingers
like vapor summoned by the waning moon

stolen by a sun that came too soon

Let It Be

open your eyes
and let the fragments
fly back inside your weary head
Piece by piece.

They are harmless specks that hurt
only because you allow them to

Maybe you collect pain to feel numb,
but no explanations are necessary.
no one needs to understand-
even you.

It is what it is.

Let it be, paul sings,
And he is right-

Because after the night
light will always be here,
A coin toss between
a pleasant blanket of glorious warmth
and the heavy scorching curse of heat
Be it comfort or defeat
You and I, we deal.

Just like heavy clouds that form
to shower upon us its fleeting rain
A steady drizzle, A raging storm
Gentle moisture, or a hurricane
be it in pleasure or disdain

the sky, she throws the dice
when she needs to decide

As you and I
we wait

powerless as heaven seals our fate.

Quarter life crisis

is drinking me dry.

Two Ghosts

I felt the first ghost a few days ago

while driving home,
I dreamt that I loved you
and we were happy.

It was my hand that you held
inside her skin
I felt your warmth through her eyes.

Some learn early in life
that you get what you need
and rarely what you want

I wanted to love you, and after all these years
I realized that I still do want to

but maybe loving you is not what we both needed.

And I see her laugh at what you've whispered in her ear
the way I used to, before I started running away.

...

Ghost number two I felt while cleaning my room
one usual, sleepless evening

I didn't really keep your photograph
I just can't seem to lose it

dropping from books and other crevices
whenever I release my room
from stagnant dust

a smiling portrait of you as a little child
an ageless smile so new inside the photo's oldness
inside my mind's own oldness
which doesn't really need reminding
because it never forgets.

I wrote you a song that you never heard
about how love cannot be faked
How true my lines were, now I'm not so certain
but the notes were as truthful as any truth I've known
and the proper words for it might come in time
in case the first one turns out to be a lie

maybe someday, in an imagined conversation
you'll let me know what this all means

and in my mind,
we can rest
knowing we both did what we can.

sleepless.

A solemn, tragic voice
treads across a sea of ethereal strings
helplessly clinging
on an acoustic guitar
To remain afloat.

selected songs
play on a radio beyond reach
as hazy eyes slowly adjust in the dark
hiding under sparks of stars that seem to glow
from fake and faint
to real and proud
and far.

Sometimes other voices
join in reciting melodic rhymes
one of them, mine
barely a whisper but divinely on time
Guided firmly by the beating pulse
pressing in the tender corner
of my tired temple

soon, in a fistful of hours
these distant little plastic stars
will give way to the arrogant sun

But for now, they remain burning
now, loudly burning,
As loud and as deep
as the reverberating sound
playing on this radio beyond reach-

that sound
urging,
wooing this dark room with its fake pentagons
to once more, surrender me
to the merciful arms of blissful sleep
so that again and again,
it may wake me up,
and remind me-

of You.

echo

you are a part of me now.

and no one is to blame,

but chance alone.

its not a cause

for absurd alarm

its not obsession

nor a sense of possession

not at all.

now

you exist

like a sacred song

whose notes I will never forget

nor unlearn,

even if I tried

and when I close my eyes

fractals that I may sometimes see

will resemble how your smile might look,

outside my head

into my heart

its how my silence

could be a discreet shout,

calling out to you;

subtle yet strong,

in ways

that I can only try to do

and this time

in my muted reality,

It will be me

playing the part

of that melancholic echo-

and this will be you:

the very spaces in-between

every time that I repeat.

last rant before you expire

Fate delivered my muse in an accidental plane
and although it failed to apologize for taking too long
how can you not forgive a beautiful song
however unusual its package may be

and instantly
I knew that he is the most beautiful sound I'll ever hear
So I chained him to my ear, without him knowing

and his poetry reminded me that I have no use for TV
cause I've no time to spare
from reading
and writing
and thinking of him
in-between the intervals
of each word I encounter

and in secret,
the small flame of my matchstick
silently morphs into a roaring forest fire
fed by the past, bursting with things I've left unsaid,
fed by his cynical words in my head

and without a word,
he makes me want to write
so I write.

and when I get stuck, the image of his voice
guides me through every stumbling pause
and safely
I arrive each and every time
pulled by the illusion of his presence-
comma after comma,
cadence after cadence.