Unexpressed Feelings
Page 7
Not for once.
You
Where there is love,
I always fall for you.
Where there is time,
I find you.
Where there is sound,
I hear…
your voice.
The sea was just a sea;
but you became its green deepness.
The sky was just a sky;
now you are its blue vastness.
The rose was a red rose;
now you are…
it’s melting fragrance.
If the beauty of you
is one wing
of summer butterflies,
the other one—is my existence.
My state of being able to be seen.
I wish to keep flying
in the colourful garden of forever.
Tu Me Manques
The distance slithering,
from me to you,
is a trace of my inner blue.
The moon you see,
always wets its light
perching on my longing eyes.
My lashes squeeze
a pair of dark aches,
when the midnight whispers.
It’s not that I only miss you extremely,
it’s that—
you are missing from me.
Pinch Me
To tell
how I felt the unfelt.
To touch
what seems unbelievable.
To show
what I don’t know.
To repeat
all that they never teach.
To be born
after living a long life.
To love
after hating the whole world.
To laugh,
to laugh
to laugh madly,
I don’t know
if life is happening—
like a dream.
Or in a dream.
Or if even—
this is life.
Madly In Love
In the mystique of our togetherness,
all my longings have been beautified.
Green darkness constantly twinkling
to make love to all my blue lights.
My body became a secret forest,
here only fairies enter to hide.
Helplessness
To know,
your deepest love
was once in so much grief,
and because of it, still is,
and would be,
adds an unseen torture
to the grief you were,
and still are,
and would always be.
My Empty Body
(The First Type Of Loneliness)
Can you see
this ground, this sky, this me?
All of these beautifully disappear
when you are with me right here.
You own my heart,
you will always own my heart;
only you are its beautiful art.
But when you disappear,
even if I’m the focus of the crowd,
I look for myself,
here and there.
I look everywhere.
But find myself
nowhere,
not anywhere.
Interchange Of Souls
The way you want me,
the way I want you,
it’s like a direct interchange of souls
took place long ago between us.
The humorous whispers you repeat,
from me the smiles you receive,
is and always will be—
our most favourite exchange.
His Proposal
“Come into my heart?” He proposes to her, dropping himself on his left knee after the horrible argument.
“And why should I?” She demands and returns to him the comb which is fulfilling the job of a rose.
“Because you…you are complicated.” He quickly and very tightly clasps her hands between his own before she beats his unbreakable chest.
“Yes, you are,” he heartlessly confirms, “You are the only one for whom two vast wings, larger than the world, stronger than my backbone, grow out of my back.” Her hands fighting against his suddenly become calm. “Don’t worry, I won’t be able to fly away,” his breaths carefully perched, one after another, on her shoulders as he pulls her close. “These wings are complicated. They fly not when I keep you, but when you keep yourself—in me.”
Magical Hug
It’s so tight
and so hard.
It’s so very tender.
That by the time you release,
all my broken pieces get fixed.
And I recover.
Perfect Unsatisfaction
To have you,
you and only you—in my life,
is an amazingly satisfying unsatisfaction.
You are the only one
who, always and always,
keeps me magically satisfied
in a way as if—
I was never before satisfied,
no matter how many times
you have already
given yourself—to me.
As if I don’t want to be satisfied,
no matter how perfectly
you have already,
satisfied me.
As if I can never be satisfied,
no matter how dangerously
you love me,
and pour yourself—into me.
Language of Love
I tried to write you down. The way your smile tickles the very inner skin of my heart. The way your white and yellow butterfly-words follow me everywhere. The way, your honey-melting stare hugs the depth of my wandering eyes.
But I failed.
I don’t know if I should be angry with the chaste black ink of my pen, or with the whiteness of my diary’s page. I changed the colour of my ink again and again. I wrote in blue, in yellow, in red. I crumpled up the pages one after another and turned the house into a perfect mess. Or was it me who doesn’t know this unwritten language too well? You laughed crazily that night when I asked, I think I should learn a few more languages to express you; should I go for Arabic, French and Spanish first?
It truly saddened me a bit.
Love has one language, you whispered clutching me from behind with your whole body. It can never be written in letters and books, or ever be conveyed in songs and soundless sounds. It is only expressed by how you make someone feel—your hands discovering new worlds in a tight hug, in a firm grip; your fulfilled-promises painting the whole solar system right on your beloved’s backbone, keeping it forever unbreakable; your two eyes doing what only a thousand hands of yours were supposed to do; and your continuous magical whisperings—This. This. This.
My beloved, all else is a body without five senses.
Jealousy
The world never understood—a girl.
When she finally accepts his proposal, no matter how temptingly he speaks about another woman, or how jolly he becomes with a different woman, her jealousy isn’t for this—other woman.
Or if the story is like this, that she chooses him to love, but he chooses some other woman to love instead of her, her jealousy isn’t for this—other woman.
Or even if he betrays her, cheats on her, or lies to her because of another woman, a girl’s jealousy is never for this—other woman.
It is always for those women, with enticing eyes and immense glows, who want him so badly, it is always for those girls who seem so perfect, who are so lucky by fate, yet he ignores them all—focusing all his attention only to her soul.
First Fight
The first fight,
/> is so very hurtful,
yet impossibly—
romantic and wonderful.
They disagree,
and all of a sudden,
love becomes
a catastrophe.
She cries
and temptingly threatens him,
he pretends to fear
and constantly apologises.
Gradually, very softly, they fall hard
into each other’s arms,
for a moment that takes—
a few weeks to pass.
Art Of Compromise
If things don’t work,
the way I want, the way you want;
if things do not go right
between the two of us;
if something I do,
hurts you;
if something you say,
blooms dark night in my day;
if something one of us likes,
the other dislikes;
if you are yellow and I’m white;
if yours is North and South is mine;
if my past is good,
and yours is bad;
if everything seems hard,
and a few things come easy;
still amidst all our wounds, in all our moments,
in all our stories and fables,
during our lives, even after deaths,
we will only remain ours truly.
You will ask, I will answer;
you will answer, I will ask;
being two different bodies,
we will possess the same soul-love.
.
Our Discussion
I can give you a thousand reasons to make you stay. I can give you a lot of new beginnings to all your bad endings of yesterdays. In all your sad winters, I can gift you the hopes of summer. What makes you content can always be my heart’s colour.
However, throughout my childhood I saw how one doll was never enough to arrange a wedding ceremony. If I ever noticed there was no star near the half-moon, I kept waiting all night for a star to twinkle somewhere near. When the flowers of my small garden showed me a different beauty of theirs being withered, I sprayed all over them my favourite perfume’s whisper. And while reading love stories, I still keep searching for that one page, for that one sentence, where the two fall for each other.
Hard.
Whatever I can do for you, I can do it beyond the boundary of all my limits. Whatever something I can give you, it can always be my—everything. Anything. The whole thing. However my thousand reasons to make you stay, my new beginnings to all your bad endings, my hopes of summer in all your sad winters, my heart with the colour of your contentment—all are hopeless—without you as the other doll; without you as the twinkling star; without you as the fragrance; without you as one of the two.
If you don’t make an effort, too, to solve these arguments, to heal these hurts, to keep each other closer than our jugular veins, the thing is, even the whole universe won’t be able to prevent the final goodbye.
……………………………………………………
You understand me, right? she questions.
I understand not a single thing else, he confirms.
Impossible Adverb
“How many days are there in forever?” he inquired.
“I can’t be counted,” Forever replied with extreme pride.
Sadness becomes his tone. “But I want to know the number of those uncountable days!”
“And what are you going to do with that?” Forever shot him an irritated glance.
“I need another perfect word, another more forever word; you seem too short and meaningless, and unfair, when I…I look into her eyes,” he replied, eyes wide.
Forever shook his head and slapped his forehead in disbelief.
Answer Me
And you love me more, you say?
That all of me leaking out
from all of your cells of hope,
didn’t happen in just one day.
How can I show you,
how you pierce yourself
into my skin, my bones, my soul,
repairing all my bruises, my lacerations?
How fiercely
you rip my heart wide open;
how gently
you sweep out all its sorrow?
A Promise
One doesn’t
need to be one
so that the person they love—
forever stays as the only one.
My life is one, but it need not be.
My heart is one, but it need not be.
Neither the soul needs to be one
nor my body.
In a hundred lifetimes, with a million bodies,
a thousand hearts, a million souls,
you would always be, wholly,
my one and only.
Pens Of A Poet
When I go out shopping, every single thing I like, I instantly buy for myself. When I see a mysterious diary, it reminds me of a close friend who binds all her sorrows and tears within pages that can never speak. She isn’t a sad girl. It is just that through sadness—she heals her own sadness. So I buy this diary for me. Last time when I noticed a white wallet in a corner of a gift gallery silently waiting for me to notice it, I knew exactly who deserves to carry it. After all, I saw his wife’s favourite earring in his wallet. His gorgeous wife still believes she lost it on her brother’s wedding day. So I buy this wallet for me.
Every greeting card with a big red heart, and fancy font, can never make me think of anybody other than my beloved mother. Mothers can’t be expressed. They must not be. Sometimes beautifully crafted words, can partially express the feelings. So I buy the card for me. And amazingly, I know exactly the person who knocks on my heart’s door when I touch the dry paint of a mystifying dark painting with my five fingers, smell a withered flower still powerfully attached to its lively stem, or taste a melted ice cream. So I buy them all. Just for me.
And when I return home, I feel like the owner of a secret treasure. I believe that at that moment nobody is wealthier than me. These are the things I like to buy for myself. And use as excuses and opportunities to give a piece of myself to the people who matter most to me. Through gifts I give myself. I gift myself. And if someone forgets me, or ever wants to, if someone stops from letting me know where life has taken them or if it’s still a sad winter when they wake up on bright summer days, I offer their pieces, their shares, to the world—through my pen.
If you are wondering what object reminds me of you and I’m compelled to buy it for myself, my answer will always be—pens.
Ameen
On every page that I am written,
in every place that I am a story,
in every moment that I am in me,
may you get written as mine only.
When tears leave you unanswered,
heartache makes you beg for sleep,
may my happiness, my laughter,
be the ground to firm your feet.
As much as I desire you,
may I receive you just as much;
that you, me, every part of ours,
live for each other, in each other.
A Fairy Tale
Once in a while,
life opens up for us,
a gate guarded by dragons
of—once upon a time kingdoms.
He turns
into the— charming prince,
I discover myself as—
the beautiful princess.
With an indestructible hope and some confidence,
we beat the dragons together,
conquer the vast palace
of our very own—fairytale forever.
In love, endings must not exist
even if in it
we are meant to be happy.
Instead of the last page
of—and they lived happily ever after,
we become each others’—
the next chapter.
A Thousand You
On one hand, we meet a lot of people in our lives. On the other hand, for so many different reasons many of them become the souls we tremendously love.
When my five year old neighbour told me her favourite colour is sky blue, I was so excited and told her that it’s your favourite, too. She blushed dramatically. I teased her asking if she would like to be your second love, to which she instantly said no as you are much taller than she and she couldn’t consider always standing on her toes. She, however, gifted me her sky blue frock and I promised I would keep it. Forever.
Two of my cousins have eyes exactly like yours: black yet breathtakingly glowing. They rapidly blink of pride every time I remind them and together we laugh so much.
Even the way you wrinkle your forehead when you are trying to act dead handsome in front of me, is the same way my new classmate does when she is confused. I become breathless and tell her to be fearless when she asks for help with class notes. And the newborn baby we went to see a few days back, do you remember I was laughing so hard? Because that baby sleeps exactly like you; his mouth wide open. I told my aunt the baby’s name must be as yours and the baby is mine, too, from now on. She agreed but promised to tease me for the rest of my life. I hate you for that.