Prelude and epilogue

Prelude

Sometimes,

I wake up to find you,

sleeping all over me,

Your legs royally,

making a pillow of me. 

Your arms,

cordoning me,

from the world like a prized possession.

Sometimes,

I wake up to find you,

fussing about the room, 

as delicately as possible

 to not,

wake me up, 

but somehow, I always do. 

I,

have woken up,

to find you talking to me,

just to stop after,

seeing my eyes opening.

Then you seal your speech with a kiss. 

Every morning, 

waking up next to you, 

the preceding nine, ten, twelve hours,

feel like a beautiful reality,

stashed in some other dimension.

But,

yesterday, I wasn't your pillow,

yesterday, I wasn't your confessional,

yesterday, you weren't my night,

yesterday, I was just a guy who had slept with you.

It's true, we will not forgive each other for this. 

Hormones & processes

I know,

when I see you,

the adrenaline causing the,

excitement before that,

gives way to,

dopamine.

I know, 

when I see you, 

my body produces enough,

estrogen to make me,

feel overwhelmed. 

I feel,

it'd be the testosterone, 

causing all the vertical movements,

when in between talks,

I catch a waft of,

your breath. 

I think, 

when we are together,

I am not thinking of you,

or you of me,

but our own separate

imagined version of us. 

To say,

that I am writing this for you,

or you are singing that for me,

is somewhat not true,

for all that we know of each other,

is just a memory retrieval at that time.

Intermission

Reality is a function of real,

& unlike the universal ones,

the glowing sun and the sinking moon,

our reals are fickle,

& our reality subjective. 

You disappear,

as you dip into my personal space,

to kiss me.

Only the experience remains,

and then the memory,

copied, converted and protected

to suit my cognition. 

Of my existence and yours

There is something that,

connects the morning you,

to the night you,

the sad you,

to the hyper you,

the stoned you,

to the sober you,

and that something is me. 

There is something about me, 

that makes you,

an angel, a rainbow, a comet,

that makes you, not you,

but what I imagine you to be. 

When you are next to me, 

you are me.

When you are looking at me,

it's me looking at myself.

When you are talking to me,

It's my introspection.

For me, without me,

you don't have an existence.    

The familiarity of your lips, 

the non-mystery of your thoughts,

the smell of your hair,

which I know so well,

all have existed in my head always. 

To say that I've just met you,

or that I met you then,

would be completely false,

because I've never met you, 

every time it was just another version of myself that I met. 

Epilogue

Peeing out of the,

two one-inch

 circles,

I can't see the world in its totality.

Calculating inside those

3 pounds,

I can't reach anyone

but myself.

And I know you feel the same. 

  

Reflections

Un-finished/Un-rhyming Prose Poetry

I msged. She replied. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool. The world works within this system. You call/text/msg. They reply accordingly. You pretend interest. They pretend sweet surprise, mixed with a smell of cunt hole. It`s normal. Everyday thing. Everybody does it.

She called. She answered. They do it every day. She told her something. Genuine surprise. Rare occurrence. They laughed. Nothing new. One pretended caring. Other being cared. Give and take. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool.

He walked. Not knowing where. Just walked. A Slow cozy gait. Not a rare thing. Occurred every once and then. Happening again. He met someone weird. An acquaintance. One pretended knowing. Other being known. They went home and had wine and sex. He stayed the night. It`s normal. If not totally.

They shouted with daggers and guns. He stopped. Dead of night. They knew him ok. They made him their leader. He spearheaded an angry mob to freedom. Then they killed each other over power and money. He survived, riding the tides. He felt genuine good riddance. They were too dead to feel anything. It happens. It`s cool. All cool.

He called. She didn`t answer. He msged. She replied. You had gone for too long. Now everything has died. He cried. She pretended apathy. He hide his hostility. Happens everywhere. No surprise here.

I called. She answered. She wasn`t her msg. She was  not her voice. It happens. NO surprise. Shoes don't necessarily match faces. Nor do tits and neckties. She said she wanted me. I said so did I. Nothing happened afterwards. But how time flies. It happens. Not with everyone. But it`s cool. All cool.

He sat in his room. Wrote anthologies with whisky filled quill pens. He wrote too fast. The pages caught fire. Everything burnt. Like a funeral pyre. He danced around it. He is mad. He has done it a million times. Burnt cities with a stroke of a pen. It`s alright. Normal. It`s cool. All cool.

They haunt the streets, their dicks dangling. Nothing new. They spot a prey. They chase. She runs. They pretend nothing. Their penises are raised. Their intentions are clear. She can`t pretend anything. She knows what she is. Just a gap. Just a hole.

They sat in red roomed houses. Printing leaflets in blood. They have been waiting for long. But now their revolution has come. Its majestically normal. It happens. After a lot of hard work. But then they overslept it. What a shame. Fucked up luck.

I waited for nine long months, then a few more years, a couple more passed waiting here and there. some more, waiting for this. some more, waiting for that. finally it all ended, in a grave and now I wait to get out of there. Waiting to wait for days, months and years.

                Home, finally found one. one of many, many of one. a place for rest and for fun.