Lacuna (draft 1)

I'm penning all these down before I forget. And I forget all too easily.

Do tell me if it's foolish
to look at your heaving chest
and imagine that your breath sustains a dream
of long walks on the beach
and cuddles in the bed
Who are you to torment me
by taking over my rationality in
the most unpredictable manner?
Maybe
you don't even know
just how every crease of the sheets
retains that little bit of you
and I envy it because
it carries you the way I can't possibly do
I reach a hand out from the
side of my bed to you
imagining that it touches yours
and I draw my devotion
in the air
hoping you would catch it
in your slumber
It is a long stare upwards at the ceiling
and the clock doesn't agree with time
You stir slightly and your eyes
rotate behind the closed lids
At one point
we will both awake and I'll finally realise
the territories of your heart
is like a boondock
that will not allow my affections to bear fruit
I will return to where it began
and retrace the path I took
before our footsteps overlapped
and went in completely different directions again
Maybe I can choose to retract my hand
and make my devotion dissipitate
I can fill this void with expensive things
and laugh about it with my words
but you will remain as a lacuna
in my past
sweet and unresolved, like a bitter aftertaste
and I will be that distant face
stowed away in a dusty corner
of your mind
even as I foolishly yearn to be the roof
the beam of support
for your dreams.

Bride

The blood-speckled
veil
lands at the hands
of the groom
whose feet,
raging with
indignation
demand that his pair of hands
cast
the veil like
an afterthought
to the back of his head
so that his lips
may spew venom
and his eyes
may cry deceit

Dancing to forget

Passing around a dash

of defiance;

of quick decadence,

to the next pair of feet;

tapping,

twirling,

trampling on

some last minute

Sanities.

The floors light up,

cradling every

inch of movement

so the spectres don’t last.

They’re huddled together

like darkness

peeled open;

flaps of unknown

Skin,

soaked in willful

Thrill.

Call this sexy

or call this porn

but they’ll bring it all the

way around by calling it

A r t.

So they packaged it,

selling it to anyone

and everyone

who has forgotten

what it’s like

to

Forget.

Leaving the Rotund

The breasts,

they sag

from gravity,

slumped across

the pallid tundra,

comforting

the lone nevus.

They silently

protest

against the

foreign fingers

that could not feel

the grief

of the loose folds

of skin.

They are sad

Very sad -

even though their

dark heads are

bowed low

in humble glory,

basking in praises,

as they hover above

the strangers

they hadn’t met.

Be still

and wonder if we knew?

Why Sleuths are bored

Little did we know,
shadows had been
unpolluted,
pristine specters,
until they crossed the sinister alleys
in a writer's mind,
burgeoning
with his own diabolical plot -

Of decrepit fingers reaching
out
to lone, unsuspecting ladies
who, just seconds ago,
felt their skins crawl, and their
spines tingle.
Of course, they showed no haste.
Calm and
Steady,
brushing the sensations aside as
silly little waves of
paranoia.

They'd soon find out,
(much to their chagrin)
that it was no wind chill,
as they're once again,
reduced to the lifeless
heap of mess
lying just inches away from the streetlight,
between pages 16 and 17.

For Another You (Final Version)

Every secret and moment shared

had been betrayed as

your eyes caught his wandering

arms around the other woman's

waist - the same arms

that would gently embrace

you while you slept.

The same eyes that once spoke truth

were now staring into someone else's.

True, there had been some warning signs

along the way.

He had casually let words

perform their daily executions.

But you thought (and hoped),

things would change for the better.

But now...

You felt the rage

slowly consuming you,

like the way a piece of paper

would dissipate when

held over flames.

You could almost feel

the contortions of your insides,

as though they're part of the

performance in a diabolical

version of cirque du soleil.

You hid yourself away for months

and prayed to emerge like a butterfly

from a cocoon.

But you never did.

On nights when it got unbearably cold

and lonely,

you'd take walks by the beach

and enjoy the sensation of the sands

between your toes,

and wondering how it would

feel like

to be smothered

by them.

The Walk (Final Version)

The faltering heartbeat

of two trespassers pierced

through the air

as they let their footsteps

fall gently on the ground.

It seemed surreal.

The vines had been awakened

by the intrusive rays,

permeating through the hollow crevices.

The path was illuminated,

not just by light. Every

ounce of minuscule crittery conversation

and every splash of a petal's brilliance

converged into a sight that

Eden would have been proud of.

“Such beauty.” they whispered, careful not to

let their voices corrupt

this tranquility.

Careful, always so

Careful.

They dug into their bags.

Cameras poised and ready to etch

the still on flimsy celluloid.

Clicks and flashes. Flashes and clicks.

Angles. Composition. Color.

They cocked their heads

and strained their arms

till the sky released its grief

in a torrent of fat droplets.