Other drugs

As I switched off my laptop ,the screen blinked empty ,
I saw the reflection of my face there.
I have forgotten how I looked like. I have forgotten how my face used to look when I frowned , probably I stopped looking at the mirror often. Or probably this happens when you tend to find everything going around you is irrational and self depreciating thoughts start engulfing you like the monsters under your bed.

Its been a few months that my inbox is empty like a fair without people , or empty with people. Its empty because I couldn't find the fullness in it without the only text I longed for.
Insomnia starts getting on me like a crab and I couldn't concentrate anymore.
If you would have been here you would have still loved the circles around my eyes and hence I'm not even counting that!
Its been roughly three years that I miss my mother while she sits beside me.
Its been 21 years that I have lost the soul I had found in a brown bread packet but the feeling is peripheral.
I couldn't concentrate without vaguely imagining those lost faces amidst a little chaos.
Because someday , maybe someday I ll start missing myself tomorrow.
Someday I would stop drinking on my past ,
And stop time by holding it tight .
Because someday , I would make sense at 3 am and my phone would ring again like before , with that old voice waiting on the other side.

Till then the lullaby on my iPod will pretend to be soft breeze and moonlight ,
Till then we could pretend to be existing in each other's minds and over analyzing it with some background music..
Because till then let's just jump into the void and fall endlessly.

All That I Could Be .

There was a house with all its windows broken
I saw a bird flying across those shattered panes ,
The scratching on the wall reminded me of a feeling of emptiness inside my room, an emptiness you feel staring at that yellow light outside.

Everything doesn't have a purpose,
I exist and I still don't have a purpose.
Im like the old man on a wrecked ship , sitting and contemplating death.
I don't know why Im writing this but the face that would haunt me ,
The face that would be there on the wooden board of the ship would be the one
I ever wanted to be.
It would be me.

There won't be anybody judging ,
Just a slice of my life would be sailing on a bottle marked with stale wine ,
A message with some dead flowers inside it ,
That :

"It was all meant to be , even if it wasn't but I made it look like it.
The broken windows screamed off it's fear ,
And the bird stopped flying there ,
It was all that was left in my mind till I closed my eyes.
The last scene was the stars cutting through the sky ,
And the sun melting like the last orange ball squeezed hard ,
And the last thing left to say is the home I had been looking for was 'someone' where I wanted to grow up.

A home , I couldn't find. 

But all I could see is ,

I could have been dead somewhere beside an ocean but here ,

It could have been anywhere but here."

Reminiscent

And I still remember the dark cab ,the way you kissed my hand and how adorably you brushed it against your beard.

I still remember the way you looked at me in the dark and that peck ofcourse.
It all seemed like it was all meant to be because it all seemed that way,

And now there are only few words and faded kisses running through my veins with your face vanishing like the ship that sailed away ,

And now that we are in remains it seems like we still couldn't make it but ,

"In the deafening silence when I asked you if I could call you my snowflake ,
You said "Okay" .

CROSSROADS

Of Saturdays and your blue eyes ,
Dreams that are marked with chalkdust ,
The rocks that you left in the jar ,
Your faded red jacket ,
A veneer of refinement when you spoke ,
It was all you ever could be!

With your skin mixed with mud and blood spilled over the ground ,
The watchtower has marks of your scratching and the pink sun don't shine anymore ,
The radio has lost its channels ,
She saw and believed that the grass has lost its green ,
And you faded from the horizon again like before ,
While she spent the midnight there standing alone in the meadow ,
Thinking about crossroads
And bright lanterns!

L.O.S.T

There's something about this city always ,
Standing on my balcony I feel the wind in my hair ,
Its the tunnels that go through my mind leaving me empty , everytime.

.............

Because it was always you and me wrapped in some old blanket that reeks of caffeine and alcohol.
The subway seems empty these days without your footsteps around.
But it was always you and me going around and chasing fireflies. 

With your breathe and mine catching up slowly , I see we are finally nowhere and finally no one.
But you see it was always you and me,
In between nowhere and somewhere.

The night drifts away and I m standing alone watching  citylights.
And my mind in a maze  flies away somewhere in the mist ,
To you ,
Or to your favourite page saved for me.
But you see it was always you and me on every page,
On every calender days and drunken clouds ,
On guitar strings or in between those lost verses of your poetry ,
It was always you and me.

Daffodils and Death

It was 6 am in the morning when you first saw your kid's dreamy smile and hair all muffed up.
It was 6 am and the horizons you thought of , didn't meet.
Your wife is sleeping cosily beside you and her bare back is visible as the soft yellow rays of sunshine touch it beautifully.  The neighbouring house , this morning is unusually quiet. Its quiet like a dead body in a deserted house.
Slowly moving towards the staircase through your drawing room with all the windows shut and curtains spread wide , you see your childhood awkwardly in polaroid flashbacks.

The last thing you remember before going    near about the edge of your roof is your kid's smile.
The taste of your wife's lips on yours ,10 years ago and the rush in you to buy roses for her.
You remember about how you forgot roses were never her favourite but daffodils.
About your last smoke and your wife's last touch.
You remember about the last page of poetry for your muse and about the lost diary that had a picture of your forgotten past.
The series of 'last things' go on as you were about to let yourself loose. The whispers in the wind and the last drop of tears that your mother tasted all came back for a second. The path to fall down now has narrowed down and the drunken clouds are now waiting for you to look at them with a smile.
You were about to fall and you did.
You did through the narrow path and through thorns that could cut.

And the last thing about the fall that you remember  being 'dead' is you actually 'never' thought about it.
You never did.

Never about the daffodils or the roses.

Never about love or wasted letters ..

Or never about the smiles that mattered 

It was all about you and never about them.

It was for the temporary looking mess and the bubble you made.

Open Windows

There is a kind of a feeling that we feel when we see an open window.
A window that has old teak wood with a colour coated green. The grills aren't the modern ones but the long ones , till the sill , the ones we get to see in Jorashanko Thakur Bari or in any house of North Calcutta.
Now as for the feeling :

As you walk through the dingy lane of a bygone place in your mind you feel that overwhelming urge to remember everything that had traced that place. Everything that touched the walls and count every footsteps that rolled on this dusty street.
You again see that window open and a thin layer of a white coloured curtain flapping.
You stand there for a second , for a second under that building in which every room had the same white curtain.
For a second the cinematic flashbacks in your mind starts speaking aloud in its own language : silence.
Its the time when the drifting curtain takes you to places in monochrome and the twilight seems to be pink and beautiful.
It takes you to a place where you can be as useless as a broken sloop .
It takes you to a place where life isn't only about dead flowers at your window but about catching fireflies laughing and thinking.
Its when you step out of the city light phase to rush into an ocean inside your mind and the veins inside you starts smiling.
You explore the galaxies under your skin then.
You see ?
Its all about closed eyes and sailing with the crimson waves to see open windows in your mind.

Hemlock

There was an alarm clock beside our bed
It had a colour close to maroon ,
You used you say "There's no such colour as maroon, it's dark reddish brown "
There was a phase when fighting over colours
And making love afterwards was like cherry wine and hushed lullabies.

By the end of July ,
The bedside table was replaced with a crammed shelf and the alarm clock was left out unwind and broken ,
The maroon had now the colour reddish brown and the beetles outside in the garden stopped their hymn probably.
It was the end of our bare foot walks and blue satin laces.
It was the end of subway dances and Hemminway's poetry and unsaid words written.

There's so much about broken alarm clocks ,
It reminds you of a smell long forgotten  and yellow moth  contemplating death .
You see it was July and not March ,
March would have had a reason for people to leave because it's the month when people actually leave ,
I used to say this often to you wryly.
I used to say this because I hated my birthday month.
(I still do )

By the end of August
I got used to nobody calling up at 3 am
And spilling out poetry like my poet in the darkness ,
And my dark window pane whispered to make me fall asleep when this came back .
I wish like you now ,
I wish it snowed here,
Sexton said that there's a strange quietness about snow, no traffic ,no songs ,
Yes there is ,
Atleast snow doesn't remind me of hemp and grass that touched your feet.

By the end of September ,
The postman in my mind got tired of letters I wrote to you ,
And it isn't winter still.
You reminded me of hemlock and cats on green leaves.
The postmaster said I have gone mad.

It's December
And it's winter finally ,
My window has turned out to be a grave of all our memories ,
The wall paint is now worn out and dank ,
I got a place now to hibernate properly with tears and caffeine , its under my pink quilt.
I try to watch movies until dawn and wake up with the stars hiding behind wisps of cloud smoke ,
You still remind me of hemlock
And dead soul ,
Which is the last thing alive in my mind.

Daydreams and Paris

Let's walk in to Paris!
It would be 20th century and I would be wearing the skirt you would have gifted me
A Victorian skirt probably,

By the end of dusk,
You would write me a letter and ask me to meet you by the bank of that river you loved,
I 'll have a small room crammed with books and yellow pages ,
My bedsheets would smell of you each morning ,
And we would dance under the street lights ,
Listen to the workers work and rumbling of cars.

The letters wouldn't end and the sand clocks would have stories in them .
We would be meeting in some cheap coffee shop then walk along the streets till our feet hurts ,
Talking about Hemmingway and lost painter's last words.

Under the lemon like moon we would write poetries for each other or gift each other words with cigarette smoke and kisses.

We won't crumble and throw away our  worst poetries then ,
We'll keep those crumbled paper in a box and lock it safely.
A coffin of our Paris memories.
With Dead keyholes and rusted bookshelves.
Burnt out cigarette butts and yellow pages that would reek of vintage love and memories.

That's how "Let's walk in to Paris "

That night the alarm clock didn't ring.
You see theres something about broken alarm clocks, it has the beauty of timelessness.