I’ve been dipping my words in hot coffee & purple ink,
Since I know you like to warm your heart into them.
I’ve been dragging my bones over the skin of these pages,
Because I wanted to write you poems like I was really there.
I wanted to touch the spines of books on your shelves,
And ask you if you could feel the shiver.
I was sifting what’s left of this stardust of memories,
and I can promise you my greatest work is yet to come.
It’s when the silver bones of my mind,
will be polished down to the silence of snow on paper.
When writers love, the planet does spin a bit slower.
It lends us time to turn all our quietness into words.
Give me a typewriter and some black coffee to complement it.
Make it drizzle outside my bedroom window and let vapors of caffeine flirt with my head.
Allow me to ponder, as I wipe away the drops of first rain from the window pane.
It will take some time, some giving-up and then some pulling-myself-up again to begin.
But the blend of rains and coffee shall suffice; it shall be enough to bribe my heart.
To spark the thousands of tiny street lamps in the corners of my brain.
And then I will write, I will put you into words, I will cage you into a stanza and I’ll only give you the keys to the egress.
I will write you into something that will carve your heart out of its rib cage and place it onto your hand and ask you what to do with it.
Dead poets will listen stealthily to my plans from behind the bookshelves.
They’ll stand witness to you tearing me apart with those stares and to me fucking your brains out with lyrical armaments.
Take off the clothes of sanity; my hands are itching to write, to send shivers down your spine.
Allow me to slide my hands into your hair while it drips off dew shining along their edges.
The beam of sun punches holes into the blinds and illuminates your wet neckline.
The slow fuck escapes your lips as you watch me and read yourself.
Love might take another form but the smell of first rain remains the same.
Melancholy to your sighs and reminiscent of your breath.
Teach me how to inhale this world and exhale it as art once again.
“Romance after the fight is the best romance in the world” is a pretty mashed up line now. And I do agree with it for starters. But what they don’t tell you is ‘why’. I think you have to look for the reasons in the fight. Hatred. Anger. The words themselves are so strong and the feelings so intense. I think it is the intensity of the fights that resides in our hearts, lurking like a molten lava challenging to be calmed down. You cannot. You could only channelize it. And what is the best stop apart from romance to get down at?
Call me crazy. Call me a lunatic. But I feel I am equally in love with her while she is screaming at the top of her voice and am trying to subdue it with my husky (clears throat) one. I think I’m oddly drawn to her flushed cheeks and her fuming eyes. I do not think I love her any less even when we are fighting. And the secret is neither does she. The anger burning in her tone only tells me how much she believes that she owns me and cannot settle down to agree with any disagreement that may happen between us. The little things that she does not shy away from, tell me that it is the version of us belonging to this moment or the period of time we are battling and not us – whole ourselves. She inherently acknowledges this far superior worth of our bonding and knowingly or unknowingly she is careful about the fragile nature of it even when we are fighting. That knowing and yet not knowing part is what builds our castle of cards, our cloud of dreams. And each time we have an intense fight, we only prick away the least important clouds that we made together. We do have to sacrifice a cloud or two, though, each time we quarrel. That’s the rule of the game.
But hey, we have only been talking about the before romance – the fight part. Once you clear this stage of the multiplayer game, romance awaits you to rekindle few dying sparks and ignite the new ones. The fire that was set up by hatred, jealousy, possessiveness and all other motherfucking siblings of them, is now waiting to draw you close. Fucking close. It starts with her pushing you away. That is the first stage of it. Then there are more attempts from your end, marinated with sweet words of affection. The names you call her, you know. She says, Do not call me that! You then call her ‘that’ again. Next stage is your ego making an intermittent appearance questioning your pursuance of her. You ignore it at first and swallow it down at second. She then surrenders. Not completely. But you see the glimmering hope in her eyes with a reflection of yours. That hope is what we live for and die for. The hope in her eyes. Yes, that is the end. It starts with once upon a time and ends with hope and grace. Not ‘they happily lived ever after’. That is your job asshole. You write, edit, proofread that. Good fucking luck.