Sunday, February 16, 2014

For her.

She walked down the lane
with sorrow dripping from her hair
that flew against the wind like
a rebel child of broken love and
she grew older with each passing moment
as her face became accumulation of mismatched fabric patches
of uncountable days that she lived in the truest sense
of a life she fathomed to be real and absurd together
and felt it like the desert earth feels each drop of first rain of seasons.

I don't know what I was thinking

I wanted to love you like the beautiful paintbrush
That I stole from my mother in my young days
Of colours and weirdest thoughts;
And the brush had a little crack at the end,    
And it became my favourite thing,
Even at times when the lines and colours
Betrayed my imagination and I spilled everything around
Like a completely disoriented mad woman.

There’s a rupture in my reality.
I saw it first when the brush died;
The pests of the old house ate the bristles, I guess.
And then there were deaths and lies and smiles
That I forgot in time.
Then came you, and I thought I could love
You who come with the messiness of the palette
In the middle of a painting on a lazy afternoon.
But I have forgotten how it felt to hold my brush,
And now I’ve forgotten how it felt to hold you!
Well I don’t know how to love,
‘Cause I don’t know what love is.
But today is the first rainy day
Punctuating the end of our winter.
Won’t you wait till spring, before you leave?