By Drishti Kedia
I write until my body becomes clay, and my lover's hands, the potter's. I write with, and without inhibition. So to say, I was born with wings. So to say, I cut them off when I discovered they push down on me when I don't have the sky rolled in my fist.
I love until his hands fit like lost puzzles onto my body's curves, until I let my melody die on my lips and become his rhythm. I love with and without inhibition. So to say, I thought love was vulgar until I was fifteen because all the poets pretended to be in love when in reality, they only loved because it fueled the poetry inside them. so to say, until I ran away from home and into the dreams my mother never had the courage to carry, until I fell in love with a man who had the universe spiraling beneath his skin.
I dream until god lifts his wings and knocks on my door, until I become the beauty of a Mediterranean summer and wrap my body up in the sunset's dying glory. I dream with, and without inhibition. So to say, I made an angel my religion and found home in his rage, and sanity in his insanity. So to say, I'm afraid to kiss my father's cheek for fear he might break apart at the touch of his ghost and I'm ending my day with coffee because I'm afraid I won't be alive enough tomorrow, alive enough to move, alive enough to...dream.
I live until the skies turn grey with anger, until Neptune meets Jupiter in a warzone and all that's left of me is nothing and everything at once.
I live with and without inhibition. So to say, I dance with my shadow until it's light outside and the sun comes up to coax the moonlight out of me, until it's 3 am and I'm talking to your leftover memory about the poetry we never wrote and books that should have been burnt before they made us who we are. Until I look at my empty hands and think about the time you traced hearts on my palm. so to say, I dance till midnight and scream along to the lyrics of a childhood-favorite band until the crowd thins and goes to bed, until I talk to your leftover memory about the poetry we did write and the books that we never read. Until I look at my empty hands and see them for what they are- just empty.
In another life, I would perhaps be something that the world could rest against when it's tired, but in this one, I'm too much shame and too little human, too much fear and too little courage; perhaps that's why I write one too many paradoxes.
By Drishti Kedia
Comments