Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

I am impatient. I blow dry the nail polish on my hands because I know I can't sit still for 10 seconds. I x8 fast forward the MGM lion before movies. I don't write about the little things in my journal when I have big news. I eat whole bars of chocolate in one go. I wikipedia uninteresting movies to know how they end, and I never sit through the credits. Dessert is the first thing I decide on when I look at a menu in a restaurant, and spend the whole meal pining for that last half an hour. The way I drive lets people know that I hate Are-We-There-Yets. I pick at my scabs before the wounds heal. I have never managed to listen to an entire Dream Theater song in my life.

What I'm trying to say is that if you want me, come get me, and come quickly. Because I won't wait. I don't know how.

I do not rest in peace

You said you would never leave me,
and you never have.

Every lonely cup of tea
is a stinging reminder of
the empty space beside me
on our too-big bed.
Every empty room
fills me with the lack of you,
your lithe limbs, your gravity, your perfume.
Everything is cold without the heat of your gaze.

What good is my breath, my life?
It is wasteful; I do not know
who to be, if I cannot be your wife.
Truth be told...I do not even know how to be.
What good is anything now,
when you have turned to dust?
The strawberries are bitter, broken is every vow,
and beauty itself has begun to rust.

You said you would never leave me
and you never have...
because I have buried your body in a way
that I cannot bury your memory.

Risky Business

Great love carries great sorrow
upon its back,
When you have everything,
Then, you will find something you lack.
He is gentler than a warm summer breeze,
but remember, you are fragile; easy to crack.
And if the breeze should ever a storm brew,
He could turn your sky from azure to melancholy black.
You are the most beautiful love song,
but melodies end, and stories can fade into a yellowing paperback.
Then how do you preserve your love
like the fragrance of cinnamon on the old spice rack?
Sweet, comforting, warm always,
Never surprising you, never cruelly taking you aback.
"You can't," she said,
She said, "You must trust that love is not a one way track."

Forever

Your unkindness, it has withered me down
into flesh hanging loose
on tired bones.
Bitterness has seeped into the streets of this small town,
into the walls of our home, and into the walls of my heart.

We never buy butter, chocolate and silk,
Instead we carry shopping bags heavy
with regret
and fresh milk
that will go sour, like we did.

The cotton candy words you spun,
Once so sweet,
Have come undone,
and have begun to rot my teeth
and eat at my soul.

I find every slight a mountain
that I am now too weak
to climb.
And my forgiveness is a fountain
that has dried up.

Our bickering is unending,
And I have known not peace
since I have known you.
Our fights are left pending
because I can no more bear the cruel curl of your mouth.

Our breakfast conversations are burned
with your caustic vitriol
Each word
is an effort, twisted and turned,
it is a lump of burning coal.

Yet, I love you
And I do not know
if it is the dint of habit that keeps us together and true
Or if we are meant to be,
destined and forever.

Table for One

I have become an island. Sure, it's a scenic place, and there are ferrys at regular intervals. But the weather is unpredictable around these here parts and when my temper is particularly torrential, not too many people are willing to ride that lonely, rocking boat with the creepy old one-eyed oarsman to get across.

I don't mind it. I can stand in queues alone even when my iPod battery has died. I can drive alone, and I can take walks alone. I can drink coffee alone and I can drink whiskey alone. If I was the kind of person who smoked, I would be the kind of person who always had her own lighter and never bummed cigarettes off anyone. I can think alone. Cocktails and reservations - I can make them for one. I can tell myself my butt doesn't look big in that dress. I can buy myself pretty things and ice cream on a bad day. I can buy myself pretty things and champagne on a good day. I can finish my own popcorn at a movie, and I can hold doors open. I can't bake alone - but then again, I can't bake at all. I can keep my own secrets. I can go to the supermarket alone and buy ten boxes of sugar coated cereal instead of sensible things. I can be far too practical to be lonely. I prefer the singularity.

I have learnt to be alone. I only hope it was a choice.

Puzzling Pieces

You flit in and out of my mind,
and I flit in and out of love with you.
Oh, you've been so unkind,
and I know I have too.

This delicate dance,
it has to end.
There is no hope, and not a chance -
for you and I will neither sway nor bend.

I can't seem to hold on to you,
but don't blame me - neither can you pull away.
Without you, all I ever feel is blue
but with you, I can no longer stay.

You kiss my lips,
with goodbyes you never mean.
And I forgive your mistakes and slips,
but we can't always be the in-between.

So today, I'll pack up my things,
Take my boxes, my big heart and my pointed wit,
Maybe tomorrow we will be more than one of those flings
Maybe tomorrow, just maybe, we will fit.

The Ghost of You

Sometimes, I catch myself staring into the endless blue,
and seeing only you.
Sometimes, I listen to the radio for too long,
and hear your voice say how much you hate this song.

Sometimes, I pour my whiskey,
and think of how you love tea.
Sometimes, when it rains and I'm soaked to the bone,
I hope that you are not alone.

Sometimes, when I am in a crowd,
I hear your laugh, especially loud.
Sometimes, when I find myself asleep on the floor,
I find comfort in remembering that you snore.

Sometimes, I wonder who I am,
and if you were the lion or the lamb.
Sometimes, I think about when things got tough,
and I know I should have called your bluff.

Sometimes, when I go off track,
In a moment, it all comes rushing back.
Sometimes - even the times I'm just making toast,
You sneak up on me, and I am overcome by your ghost.

Coffee and Cigarettes

She occupied the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. Although, to be honest, both 'occupied' and 'restaurant' would be a rather deceptive choice of words. Her petite, nervous frame barely took up any of the ample space offered by the large, tattered sofa; and this place - with its mildewed walls and crooked picture frames - could hardly be called a restaurant.

Her appearance was, in a word, careless. Her choice of clothing was a haphazard assembly. Her hair was seemingly reluctantly held in place by a pencil struck through the loose bun of curls at the nape of her neck. The fingers of one hand absentmindedly fidgeted with the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The watery coffee, long cold, stood at the forlorn edge of the table; It was merely an excuse to remain seated and keep the nosy waiters and their questions at bay.

She scribbled on the menu card, each doodle flirting with the idea of completion, of being more than a half finished sketch of the coffee cup or the curtains or the lonely old owner of the restaurant…but no. She never could finish what she started.

Behind the glazed over eyes, her mind reeled with questions. "How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

The door creaked open to let in a young man, handsome and impeccably dressed. He paused for a moment and took in his surroundings, but he was far too polite to let what he thought of the place flash across his face for more than a split second. He decidedly made his way to the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. He unbuttoned his expensive blazer - finest Italian cut, no doubt - and took a seat opposite her. After a cursory glance at the menu, he ordered an espresso (strong, please) and a tossed salad (dressing on the side, no tomatoes, thank you). He unfolded a newspaper and made his way through the developments of the day. Front page, local news, business, international, skipped the comics, and ended with sports. He drank his lukewarm and weak coffee in silence. He picked at the salad for a few minutes before asking for the cheque.

He deposited the money for his meal along with what most would deem a generous tip, thanked the waiters and promised to visit again, buttoned his blazer and made his way out onto the street. After the appropriate amount of time and hesitation, she followed. A chauffeur driven car pulled up to the curb. He held the door open for her, and she got in.

"Lovely weather," he said, after a few minutes.
"It is", came the stony reply.
"You know it took me over 4 hours to find you? We looked everywhere. The servants have interrogated every shopkeeper on the high street about your whereabouts. We even called your father."
"Hmmm."
"I should have known to look for you here. Darling, I know it's a quaint little place and special to you…I only remember it because it's where I first met you - to discuss having your paintings on show at the gallery…but it is not somewhere a lady of your standing should be seen! You are no more the poor artist, you are the gallery owner's wife! It is not befitting of you to be seen in the places you used to haunt when you could afford no better! Now, for heaven's sake, get out of those old clothes - the servants have picked up your dress for the ball tonight, but you need to call mother about the flower arrangements…."

She looked out the window.
"How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

Nana & Nani

My memories of this place are safe in the bubble wrap of time and distance. In my eyes there are no cracks in the crown moulding, the yellowing paint is white, the now threadbare rug is still plush, the fraying lace curtains look no less decadent than they did 15 years ago and I still hear the cuckoo clock that nobody has found the time to wind. Most of all, my grandparents are still young.

My feet skip nimbly over the slew of medical paraphernalia attached to their big comfortable bed when I land myself squarely in the middle of it. My eyes somehow glaze over the mountains of prescriptions littering the bedside table. My mind pretends not to notice how their hands tremble when I hold them in mine.

Until this year's visit, I was scared. Petrified. I refused to acknowledge it. Nothing was taking them away from me, especially not this proletarian concept of Old Age. But life has a funny way of trapping you in a tiny room with your worst fears until the two of you talk things out and part ways with a mutual respect. So they both fell ill. Unreasonably ill. Why? Not because they weren't eating all their vegetables, not because they'd smoked themselves into cancer, not because of any fault or neglect on their part. Just because they were old.

So this year, I saw them as they were - tissue-paper skin, porcelain bones, salt and pepper hair. They weren't all that different. I'm not claiming that they have maintained the same mental and physical agility - but they are the same on the inside. They are not blighted with bitterness - there is no vitriol in their speaking or thinking.

What does it matter that my grandfather now has to lie down while playing teen pati with me, what does it matter that my grandmother forgets that story of Krishna and the Gopis half way, what does it matter that they now tire after walks around the house rather than walks around the building. What matters is that they still love us, they still want to do all these things with us.

If I ever do get to being old, that's how I want to do it. Fighting what I can but accepting what I must.