I was supposed to have forgotten you by now,
People tell me to leave you
like rice grains outside my threshold,
I tell them that you are my Muse now,
See, nobody questions an artist's sanity,
They are supposed to be bad for themselves,
When I trace your laughter on paper for the ninth time,
it is poetry, not an obsession,
My sleep-cycles resemble an owl on coffee
because the moon is my lampshade,
It is not my darkness looking for company,
It is not the chips of your bracelet on my ceiling
It is not the ridges of your neck under my sheets,
Poetry-writing is a montage of creative masterstrokes,
it is not slumping into pillows until I remember I need to breathe,
No, my metaphors were borrowed from the robins
that learnt Shakespeare over thatched roofs,
I did not brew these words between my teeth like a meth lab gone wrong,
I am definitely not addicted to you,
My smiles are poignant reminders of love,
they are not crumpled tissue-papers around my room,
It is all good art,
Thanks for staying, Muse,
I now know that art doesn't need to be pretty
to be beautiful.
Image Source: Kazuya Akimoto
I'd put it just like this, provided of course, I was as articulate. I say this because the feelings are just mine. and this isn't just for this one but for all that i've read. These are things that were lying in some deep recess of my sub conscious, of which your words make me so acutely aware now. In a sense, they upgrade my understanding of myself. In an epiphany of sorts. Sid, It's like acquiring a new vocabulary of grief, passion, love, longing & forgetting. Very well done !
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Bharat :D
DeleteI endeavour to keep writing the ineffable. Feedback helps a lot!