You don't go out often,
except on some opaque blue occasions—
a friend's tanned birthday, an off-white book fair, a silver star's death.
You stand in one corner, smile softly, and close your eyes.
Daisy, Lily, Grey—high school—red and white.
Your heart beats softer; the roses shiver.
Stealthy kisses, hushed love, peppermint candy—a tangled blur.
The last time you thought of it, you cried.
But this time, it felt like an early sunflower bloom.
You wear the same shirt on every occasion;
They say you're boring.
Do you care? Like, ever?
The petal flutters in the late-summer air.
Your eyes say something—
something rare yet profound. Ocean waves.
I feel that whenever you stand by the sea;
A deep inhale of the salty air,
A mirage of untouched memories of her,
A sudden weight of guilt and melancholy. (Maybe void, too.)
Her memories, tucked safely on the back page of the book;
A song plays low—gentler than her last caress.
Did you love them? Like, ever?
You got a tattoo after you
came to this new town;
A little flying bird between your index finger and thumb.
We both don't know the reason.
Perhaps, you've wished to,
or maybe you don't know why, as I don't.
I only know its name, Phoebe.
Does it remind you of her? Like, ever?
Wine spills from yellow pastels.
It's fall now.
Dimly-lit stories line up my bare arms
like winter streets in the afterglow.
There's a lot to say, a lot to explain, and a lot to fight about.
I can hear sharp voices outside my heavy curtain;
A protest or something—
I'm too tired to go out and check.
Everything's back again, all of them, but it feels so wrong.
You write to her in moon letters and black stars.
She's still here, you think, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The coffee's stale, the ladybug's early, and everything's wrongly perfect.
Life's never been the one to follow the rules.
Time's never been the one to give you another second.
But she did—she was everything you thought would never happen.
My world's under the bluish haze of September;
Flowing news in the gust of wind
beneath me; my night's my
last sip of champagne in the broken glass.
A lone stranger walks by my window,
humming your favorite bluegrass song.
I could see your hair flying in the air;
glitters of sunlight upon them—black spots dot our gaze.
Did you miss me? Like, ever?
The loud noises and low rumbles
now fade in the creepy fog.
I can hear the loud typewriter,
drunk on the ennui.
My cheeks feel cold; your face's mashed on the road.
I can only see a blur of bobbing heads and your green pendant
somewhere hanging mid-air.
The dust swirls in moonbeams,
whispering lavender secrets and bottled thoughts.
You are saying something we both can't hear.
Do we try hearing them? Like, ever?
You drop people's hands while dancing.
You miss the morning train often.
You remember all your red wine problems
that curl up like you in your head.
You like cuddling with them—
when the stars don't spark, and the sun's dead.
Your cheeks turn rosy pink quite often.
But you don't smile; you're another summer rain
in mid-July.
I curl up in my bed and stay awake until 3 a.m.
Toxic thoughts plague my mind,
Tears burn stronger than my port wine.
The sunflower's turning pale grey in the sunlight.
How brutal that I can't speak—or write as you do.
It's too much for nothing that life gave but took away.
When everything was a showpiece and life was a bet,
how could I look up at the stars and sigh 'perfect'?
I wish I could drench myself in.
You wish you could swim back to the shore.
A burnt apartment room, a happy note in the middle.
Did we ever think of falling in love? Like, ever?
Did you run behind the train?
I don't see you returning home.
Did you leave your house and move?
I don't see you from my window.
But I know we will never wash away in our summer showers.
You miss her every day,
every summer morning—
when you miss your train.
I miss you every day,
every lone butterfly morning—
when I spend hours lying in my bed.
We miss people, things, and others.
We miss ourselves and each other.
We miss the rough faces and dead streets.
We still linger in our azure reveries;
We still hear sounds like nothing.
But we miss something...
Something called love.
The sun's dying behind the clove-scented clouds.
We're drowning in indigo in being unloved.
Everything feels torn by the pull of gravity.
I get a new mail. But I'm too tired.
Or am I late?
I don't want to talk of love, but you do.
I don't want to see sunsets, but you do.
I don't do sweet dreams, but you do.
And I can't help it.
We don't love to think, but we do.
You of her, me of you.
Sleek blue hair and red-black flames.
At the end of the lilac evening,
we smile at each other's hearts and sleep.
Sweet dreams; it's indeed sweet,
even though I never liked it.
Till one day, we will meet in a sunflower field again,
warm in unshed tears and dumb in a million aches.
"Dear stranger, want to grab a coffee?"
The petals burn in ecstasy under the silver sky.
Was it all a dream all along?
Or did we fall? Like, for real?
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A/N: But the yellow stars on your screen are real, right?
©April 15, 2023. Sreeja Naskar.