I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

I wrote this poem while at work, simply to use the various words I had up on the wall as inspiration but never did use. There are some words that I can no longer remember the meaning of...

But I love the way they all sound nonetheless.

I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

It was pure and utter serendipity.

The first time I saw her,

She had all the panache of a Victoria’s Secret runway model.

It was in a department store.

She was standing still.

Achingly so, like all the world couldn’t have inspired a movement.

I stepped closer.

‘COWABUNGA!’

I knew our relationship could only be quixotic.

In a few weeks I took her home.

Our life together was a labyrinth,

Bamboozled by my idealistic dreams

And her ataraxic nature.

She always smelled of fresh laundry.

And I, of petrichor.

But our shenanigans were fairly transient.

She was acting ridiculous and I,

Was pernicious to her health.

And so I,

In a lackadaisical moment,

Left her standing out by the door.

Where she haunts me every day

In her ephemeral beauty.

Her pizzazz fading with the days,

Weeks, months, years.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Our time together lingers,

Festers,

Obfuscates.

My current quandary

A riptide through my being.

This vermicious pain is quintessential.

But it’s such a buzzkill.

Her body is now a palimpsest.

Rust, leaves, metal, vines.

Green, white, brown.

Her pulchritude even more irresistible.

Only she could smell fresher than laundry.

Saudade.

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And now if you are wondering who she is, as so many people have, I present to you, her:

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In a Pot of Bubbling Sauce - The Result of a Quick Poetic Exercise

He had been prowling the streets
The usual routine
Checking for spies
Or even traitors
But the godfather could not save him now
He was far too deep in his own pasta and meatballs
The spaghetti ropes were overcooked and falling everywhere limp
Like the clandestine antiestablishmentarian establishments
Fuck. He thought...he was stuck in a pot that he had not wanted to even step into
Magenta walls towered over him as he hoped someone would find him
Down this dark alley vertical in the ground
He looked up hearing a voice...Bharti? Was it her? Was it that no good mother of his come to rescue him everytime he couldn't solve his own problems?

Ember of Light

I walk the lonely stairs.
Right to the top.

I look around.

No one.

Not a soul.

Empty darkness...

Just like me.

I sit on the concrete ledge,

Smoothened by paint and P.O.P.

The stark white

Blinds me.

I like the dark.

It’s been home

For 3 years,

While my parents

Busy with their lives

Told me the whats and hows

Of life. My life.

I was a slave.

Their slave.

I lived not for me

But them.

Them, Oblivion’s children.

My sister,

The sheep

Amidst all the bitterness

Was my only hope.

The only ember of light

In my darkness.

I lived only to see her smile,

Her sleeping face

Every morning, angelic,

Lying amidst

Soft thick blankets

Which smelled of strawberry jam

Or chocolate cake,

Whichever she’d eaten,

With hints of hair oil.

Until two months ago

When Death’s arms embraced her.

Today I stand

Surrounded by white

Disturbed by the brown of a ladder.

And a rope,

Rough and knotted,

Thick as my arm.

Its braids within a braid

Remind me of my sister’s life

Within mine.

How we were intertwined,

Until the fatal day.

I look below.

Happy people, moving on

With their lives.

Is the jump worth it?

I step onto the flat edge

Of the low wall.

Nothing above.

Nothing below.

It feels rough on my feet

The edge,

Like my parents have been

On me.

I stare out

Waiting for Death

A friend from the dark.

A double tap on my shoulder

Turns me around.

No one, but wait...

My sister’s face in the wall.

White, pale, sad.

A hallucination

Or a sign?

I step down,

Off the ledge

Back on solid ground.

A salty tear

Escapes my eye

And into my mouth.

There’s too much to live for.

Today, …today I live.