Playing At The Window Pane

The lights flash twinkle, twinkle as my drunk, far-sighted eyes move blink, blink, blink. This time it was something really burning everything inside. A lot of water but I’m still blinking at two in the night.

All my life I wanted someone to tell me I was missed.

Terribly missed.

And when it did happen I had other, stronger designs playing in my head. Of ‘tyag’. I rub my hands on my naked spine till the hem of the chequered sarong and back again. Sweet, music-less rhythm. The unrest creases my smiles these days, some sort of waning. Sometimes you have to strong, sometimes a liar, sometimes very, very smart.
What about the resigning, fragile ones?
They die in wars with the Taliban and economy.

I left them a week ago, on a cool terrace built amidst a sun dried forest, but the voices move around and so do the eyes. Cool black. And orange stained white fur. You may change but the sadness flows gently choking you, thudding in your ears before it pours out. In tears and ink stains. In secret scissor marks and delicate knife scars.

I find vacuums comforting, then. Silent ones that sit and stare back at you.