Wrong room

frost_on_the_window734

Frost on the Window by Robert Strong Woodward

In front of her was a door, and like most doors, this one also required her to enter. There was nothing necessarily dangerous on the other side — only people, but she didn’t find any comfort even in that thought.

When she entered, her eyes settled on the empty spaces and on the corners of the room seen from her point of view. She craved to settle in on one of the cracks between the spaces and just blend in. In those cracks, she could be herself, even when inside a large room full of strangers.

But where does she go? How does her feet begin to walk towards those cracks?

Well, she had to endure five minutes. Five minutes of searching the crowd. Five minutes of vacancy and sweaty palms. Five minutes of faltered smiles and clumsy tiptoes. Five minutes of not knowing what to do.

Knowing that she could not stand by the doorway for too long, she began to walk towards one of the spaces. However, she stopped herself short at the sight of a window on the far left.

She loved windows. Windows have offered a world of excitement and imagination to her ever since she knew windows existed. They opened and allowed warm wind to caress her. They empowered her to daydream at night and sleep during day.

There came a time when she had a season for windows. It was the season when she felt as if there were always waves crashing against her feet. It was a season where she had a place to be in. And given any opportunity, she always wanted to recreate those moments.

With newfound motivation and certainty, she changed gears – from empty spaces to familiar windows. Her five minutes were now reduced to two. She still had to pass by the crowd but her eyes were set. It was getting better.

At the last minute, she felt the dark seep in through the frames of the window. The air that came with it was cold and unforgiving. Even before she could reach her intended destination, the spot where she hoped she could lose herself in was becoming lost.

Snow came pouring in, covering the window panes and glass and she stared, helplessly, as the window vanished before her eyes.

She was in the middle of the room now. Her feet were pointing towards something non-existent. Eyes were on her. They knew where she intended to go.

Willing her already pale skin to change into steel, she took a step back towards the direction she came from and pretended that she was in the wrong room.

 

 

Advertisements

Once upon a full moon [poems]

Prompt: What would happen if the light bulb was never invented?
download

Photo credits: PxHere

Creation story

And –
Nothing. In the beginning
there existed only space and
absence and absence
and space for eyes to close
on mornings.
At night, there would be palms
for praying against floorboards,
as one crawls
towards the streets where
there are other people praying.
Those who know this
ritual call on names and
name themselves as beings
who do anything else –
else, seeing.
They pace their dreams this way –
Awake the whole day, for
only in nothing, eyes closed and
praying, can one call upon
beginnings.


Prompt: Compare the budding of a flower to the death of a star.
art-1180087_960_720

Photo credits: Pixabay

Through this we process

Uncurling your fingers before
laying your dust to rest –
we hold our stories closest
to our chests.
Buried in a space for what
once was – the toiling,
the explosion, the welcoming
of dew and dusk.
The sky and fields in which
we dream, of endless
cycles, restarts it seems.
And everything, in the pace
we keep, only in unfolding
do we reap.

this time we mean it

painting-681410_640

Photo downloaded from pixabay.com

just in case

the lines along the cracks of your lips

no longer hold the answers

I need

just in case

the tiles begin to measure more than

actual distance

between our fingertips

just in case

the morning air constricts not only

my lungs

but also our infinite possibilities

just in case

there are conversations full of reason

left open

against summer breeze, urging

 

just in case

one of us forgets to keep the light on

for the sake of tracking dates and one of us

leaves, feet dragging against unsuspecting sand,

let me linger longer

let me love fuller

let me remember better

as you become the bitter aftertaste

of salt and sea.

 

letting all the bad feelings out through “poetry”

messy_art_by_amalitsa

Artwork from deviant art: amalista

unsavory, like salt,

a scrunchy I left wet, hanging

on the toiletries rack, the

morning couldn’t get any sweeter

with awkward dances an­­d words

I was too sleepy to say, I don’t

have the tolerance for unironed shirts

today. Stay, we kept holding up

hands against the sun, grass and shoes

were about to give up, cold sweat,

unsatisfactorily everything, from half

hearted laughs to always one step apart.

I was pulling but breaths kept

at it until the quiet was quite as desperate

as fried chicken for breakfast. There is the

illusion that forms meant to taste like

cake, chewed on by a thousand dreams I

had for a fifteen-minute nap. It was

just as I thought it’d be with misspellings

and mishaps the saints in my head invented. We

were just as they told me when I prayed not

too long ago to do what the common

folk to with their tongues, for the sheer thrill

of being normal, in the streets there was

shouting instead of constant nods to hats tipped

off. I was no longer awake after more

than a day of crickets and throbbing and

the light showed itself out of my eyes until

I wobbled. My bedroom floor tasted like cement,

now that I think about it.

how do souls brush against each other?

 

d3ce14f7d76ef69451484a7029d06cec

Photo credits: Pinterest (Mishal Benson)

 

to remember that it was a kind of brown,

one that looked like a Monday, like coffee overflowing with sugar,

tucked away inside the eyes of someone who had a lot to say.

there was music and it sounded like pieces of piano keys falling, one by one, like

childhood and the last second before falling asleep. the room knew what was happening,

letting itself be occupied by vacancies and paint splattered on the walls. the paper knew

what it felt to be remembered, so it offered itself to idle strokes and the silence thereafter. in

that instance, there was a universe created, a silent agreement of

allowing the breaking of defenses and taking a step closer. there were secrets

unexplored still but it was then that looking into someone’s eyes meant

seeing them. (finally.)

To me he was Odin

If there was a rule to guard against attachment, it would be this: Do not let the name speak to you. Do not allow it to roll off your tongue. To use names would permit a sense of permanence and familiarity to settle atop your shoes and would bless the soil with that moment forever. (It would be too hard to commit to.)

But the eyes will always try to speak to you first. Despite your initial resistance, it will whisper to you. That day, it was Abby. And then, Odin. Before I knew it, my system accepted the register and I was holding your head. I said it aloud.

My hands never reach out first. They dread the split second they hang on air, wanting. But if I do attempt something, the heart suffers the most, because it explodes both at the thought of flying and actually getting somewhere.

I’d just like to think you understood me then. (Let me pay tribute, before I repress the happiness any further.)

because secretly, i’m a mermaid

105698800_the_daughter_of_the_sea__final_version__by_marcobusonid65ku5c

Photo credits: The Daughter of the Sea by Marco Busoni

There had to be sunlight somewhere. For fish hungry for water, it seemed ironic to first look for heat. But there she was, feet already sprouting, yearning for the sort of warmth she didn’t even understand.

What does it take for breaths to have meaning? Swimming around, she came to know air only as something you need for catching up. The sea was just a place to go. The waves were just a means of passing by.

Inside her, stuck in between bones she called her body, was more water. Her lungs were a well of salt and saliva, thickening with every inhale. Was it dark there? Was it dangerous? (Nonetheless, they were still just transparent.)

What did it mean to be buoyant? Sometimes, when she touched her scales, she can imagine herself floating. Though in her head the surface is also the sea, she knew she really didn’t need to escape water. Drenched, she only needed a small flame to hide underneath her shell.

Poems found

here— as if words written

on tissue meant something.

truth, if it allowed itself to be

relative, would reveal the same:

“I have never given it thought,”

And yet, still. But because.

perhaps —say it— during breakfast,

despite the cold, we become. We

let Friday settle in our shoes so it

can turn into dust. Unless songs, one

without feet to play it, can

exclam: “Be yourself”. Maybe then.

permanence never was; it only

existed in fragments. And I’ll 

remember which table,

when it drops.

The cost of swallowing your words

girl-in-a-bottle-10796-1920x1200.jpg

Photo credits: suwalls.com

You stand before the judgment of whoever it was you believed was above you. You tell yourself to keep you head high, to look out the windows if you must, so that at least you could say a part of you fought for something. But your lips, trembling, gave you away. Though your heart was hammering against your chest, rebelling against the control you’re trying to enforce, you knew you’d say nothing in the end.

You weren’t the type of soldier to keep guns in your back pocket. Instead, you carried a flag and a glass of cold water. More than anyone, you knew that there are injustices worth speaking about and people worth breaking the silence for. You wore your principles like a rosary around your neck, that to tuck it out of your shirt would be as powerful as a prayer.

Maybe, you felt like survival meant being quiet in a jungle, that to travel at night and adhere to the rules of the king would be the only way to get out alive. You’ve scraped your knee a little too early when you sang with your inside voice, and that sort of betrayal felt more painful than having nothing for breakfast. There’s something unspoken that followed after – shortness of breath and constant second-guessing.

Now, your teeth are turning yellow and your name is trying to escape. The thoughts you used to be sure are yours sound like another person. Your mouth is dry; your tongue has reverted to its cave. And you feel, with everything you let be and keep inside, you barter a chunk of your soul for temporary comfort.

You cannot avoid conflict. War travels in the air as a given. If you cannot fight for your heart, fight with it.