Mental Maps

I read mental maps of the house we never built.
Waltzing to the tune that was never heard;
Up on my feet, through the night, that never was;
I relish meals you never cooked for me.
I end conversations we never had,
answering all the questions you were too cowardly to ask.

I draw pictures with words,
Of vast landscapes with trees bearing fruits, we will never eat.
I walk on roads we thought we would plant saplings along;
Leading up to the steps of your neighborhood library;
I stand at the window, quoting poems you'll never read.

Existing through the years of this life without you;
I have treasured the minutes you were there.

Disgust.

I like this disgust swelling in me, 

Pulsating like heartbeats; steady and sure. 

Burning up my insides akin to a volcano waiting to erupt. 

I like this turbulence

I like how I am jolted back to reality. 

Like walking out of the theater after 'Gravity'

No, it is not bad, if you come to think of it. 

I have given flesh and bones to this mythical drama. 

I have worked on the cast, written the story; 

Rehearsed the script. 

I like this disgust that is swelling inside of me; 

because this is not the event, it is the after-after party.

The aftermath, 

Walking the walk of shame the morning after. 

I am waiting for water to spill over; 

I will blame the glass for its limitations. 

I am waiting for the volcano to erupt. 

I will then blame my heart for its cowardice. 

to what end?

I hate it when I have to make words rhyme
It seems forced and false

I hate it when I have to justify my text; 

I think right, left or middle aligned works just fine 

I hate it when I have to hate you when I don't want to 

I hate it when I do

I hate it when I do not. 

I hate it when I do not know my limits, 

I hate it when I do not know where you end and I begin. 

I hate how I feel when you look at me, 

I hate it when you don't 

I hate this hatred more than I hate hating you 

I hate you more than I hate loving you. 

strange

Let us meet in a stranger's dream. 

A little strange you and a strange little me. 

For you, I think I'll make a garland of memories

You'll get me a bouquet of joy. You, my bouquet of joy. 

A happy little heart sings a happy little tune 

A heavy little heart in a strange little dream. 

-----

PS - I am NOT a fan of Karan Johar movies; but the line - 'jaise dil ka pet bhar gaya ho..'  has stayed with me. 

the sound of silence

Every time I write it is about nostalgia.
Every time I write, I have inadvertently travelled to that sweet spot on youtube where my playlist lines up, each song better than the other complimenting the song before it, completing the thought. Have no doubts I am a fan of eclectic playlists where NFAK leads to Freddie Mercury which breaks Damien Rice free. But this consistency, that sweet spot is like a ride into the sunset, on a road with no potholes or breakers.

Every time I write it is because I am craving conversation, and no one will do, when I don't want to jinx the delicate muslin feel of the breeze with a jagged conversation about chores/bills/work.

Every time I write the light is maddham, life is maddham.
Every time I write, I think of you and You.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions I am too afraid to ask.
Every time I write I am looking for answers to questions that were ignored, forgotten, left to die.

Every time I write, my eyes are moist towards the end, the world turns blurry and Jal plays in the background telling me panchi hoon udne do...

Every time I write it is like I am talking to you, letting you on on an intimate detail, out in the public. Like that couple that holds hands in packed malls oblivious to the people around, like I live through life with headphones on, oblivious to people around, looking for a particular face while all other things, people, are somewhat hazy in the background.