Riddles

It was the glance I think, which summarized our relationship. Half-imploring, and remarkably opposed to the seemingly cool and confident words coming out of your mouth. And I realized how to say what needs to be said can sometimes be the most impossible thing in the world. To say the words directly requires the acceptance of responsibility, and the idea that one is responsible for the truths one speaks can be daunting. It requires one to be sincere, and in some instances, to be vulnerable. And who wants to be vulnerable? It just opens you up to pain. So we spoke in a language that operated in two spheres: "How was your day? The food is lovely," to mask the words we refuse to speak aloud, but which we also hope would be understood. (I love you. Never leave me.)

We spoke in riddles to disconnect meaning from our mouths, instead hoping for a relationship that transcended language, that transcended spirit, that transcended us.

This Morning

This morning was easier
than yesterday morning,
or yesterday's yesterday morning.
I did not think about you.
Not your scent,
Or your touch,
Or your face.
There was just a vague feeling
Of hunger
and the aroma

of pancakes and eggs.

There was a sense
Of losing
something important.

But I brushed it off
and downed the misery
with honey and milk.

Sometimes there is victory
in forgetting
and defeat in remembrance.

Photo taken here.

To a lost love

I was young, and the four years you had on me made you look worldly and much more handsome than you already were (you didn’t need to be better looking, my heart skipped a beat every time I looked at you). We always stayed in a coffee shop in Glorietta, a 15 min ride from your place, a 2 hour drive from mine. (Even then, there were metaphors: you could never meet me in the middle). I always had chamomile tea, and you always bought a cappuccino; I thought it a quaint ritual, you never thought about it at all. Back then I wished for your love and would have settled for your disdain; I could never stand your indifference.

There is always something about first love. Even now, looking back, there is pain, in that singular way nostalgia and regret inflicts pain, but I embrace the sensation: my thoughts are my own. You are no longer important to me, except for that part of you, no, part of me, that remains in my memories.

Music: A Sestina

You turn the knob of the radio, looking for stations between

The monologues of headless voices. I

Touch your knee, wanting nothing but silence

Amid the soft humming of the engine. I am not

Sure how you take my request: a stiff lip greets my smile but

I shake it off and wait for the music

You so want to hear. This listening, this music

Is a ritual we perform unerringly, in between

Departure and arrival, a ritual against quiet boredom. But

Now we sense nothing but strain, as if I

Said something wrong. I ask and you say you are not

Angry, just tired. But your silence

Says so much more. Your silence

Unnerves me. I feel a sudden need for music.

We listen to the droning of the DJ, trying not

To mind the stifling air, charcoal-dark, smoke. In between

Gasps, I

Try to speak but

Words will not come out. In my head, words are but

symptoms of regret by fools. And I need silence

But also lack the strength to carry its discomfort. I

Realize, in between words, we are disconnected: mere shadows. And music

Makes up for our failings, and its absence deepens our pain. In between

Words, we realize we are not

What we think we are. We are not

What we hope we are. But

We need to understand. Between

The mundane and the essential, there is silence,

But as yet, it is not peace. Your need for music

Reveals the answer: To you, what am I?

I

Am not

Music

But

Silence

In between.

And the realization turns silence to peace. To you, I am not passion but

Pause. I am not emotion but calm. Not song but silence.

Between words, there was hope for something more: Music.

Featured photo taken here.