Old Lovers

The clouds descended that morning. I had only one wish amongst many which seemed impossible. Isn't flying the only dream we dream when the bird we reach to pet takes off, yawning with its wings? I wanted to fly up, ball up clouds in my hands like snow and bring them down as I land theatrically, gracefully. I jumped off sidewalks and stairs to see if I could land without breaking a bone or falling face first. I prepared for my first flight.

I grew up, and as I gained years, my bank of things-to-know gained a few pounds too. My aunt once told me a story where somewhere high up on a paved mountain road a cloud passed through her car. How did it feel? I asked her. She looked at me confused and said: It was cold. It just passed right through, like cold air. The disappointment I felt still wheezes when it breathes.

The solid fluffs of clouds turned out to be a mirage, preserving its secrets only by staying far up, brushing the space between space and atmosphere like a handle-less broom. That's why we forget about flying and landing. We know now there are no cotton arms to hug us and our wings as we lift off.

The clouds, my old lovers, lost more and more of my attention because their lies had been caught. I didn't even jump off stairs anymore; just stepped off like a reasonable human being. I suppose they got upset at my conditional attachment. I suppose they got attached to me right then, like a faithless sweetheart who wants you only after you leave. I suppose they did, because before it was time to wake up that morning, they made their way down to my sea-level city; they bowed their heads and sank to my window, passed through iron bars and pressed their white noses against the glass. I suppose they decided love was not a cul-de-sac but a two-way street and that it was time to confess. Because when I woke up that morning, all I could see was fog.

Fine Line

I'd always heard

There is a fine line

Between love and hate.

But it took little more

Than a speedbreaker jump

To go over to the other hell.

Love is a big four letter word

And I'm not big enough.

I only know it's more than a

Tingling of the toes and

Heavy breathing.

It's a stripping of your soul

From the soles.

Pulling at your feet till your knees

Bang on grass.

It is getting hit in the gut with

Your brother's cricket bat

Only a bit more pleasant.

It is a mob in your chest,

Scratching and banging against the bars of the rib cage.

It is an ache

In your empty hands.

It is a hysteria.

So what am I surprised for

When hate feels just the same.

When both I know are passionate

And on a Richter scale would read

Either eighteen or eight.

What am I surprised for

That the line is a pencil mark hardly visible

Rubbed on with fingertips until

Carbon outlines the fingerprints.

I should have known your tongue would make

Serpents

Instead of kisses one day.

The promises made will be

Undone

One by one

Like shoelaces pulled out with no regard for the elaborate braiding.

When 'liar' became the only untruth,

I was left gasping for oxygen

Because somehow you were my plant

And I had never a green thumb.

But I won't just stop watering you.

You will not wither and dry.

I will not put you in

A blistering corner of the sun

To die a natural death.

I will

Light matches,

Burn cigarette holes

In your leaves.