I looked for love and all I received was an emotional loneliness –
a room with spotless marble tiles, a warm, quilted blue bed,
closets filled to the brim with books new and old like a
Leprechaun’s pot of knowledge, the syllables the gold,
and a window which overlooks a small garden filled
with multicoloured hyacinths like cakes with layers
of frosting, but paradoxically one where the cold draft
seeps through bones and rattles me awake, and sleepless,
distraught, disturbed, dysfunctional nights give me no
It’s funny how everything possesses a façade of beauty,
a dying modicum of hope and eventually fades to a
simulacrum of truth.
I know the answers and yet don’t receive them.
I know what change is and yet stay ever the same.
People say love’s some myriad things, making it complicated,
complex, confusing when it’s simple deep, beautiful emotion
that drives the noblest action. It’s like driving on a deserted highway
and looking at fields of gold; nature’s song infusing a deep-seated
elegance in you, making you forget and smile, and that simple
simile will suffice.
I know the truth and yet can’t achieve it.
I know what faith is and yet stay insatiable.
And maybe it’s not knowing you like I once did,
or maybe it’s deeper.
I walk on rough cobbled streets, weathered, worn and wizened. The opaque grey reflecting no sunlight and there’s no glint in these bloodshot eyes. I’m jaded and though I walk past rows of cracked beige houses with porches riddled with dying honeysuckles, the flowers the color of curdling milk, I’m not possessed by wanderlust. I’m just lost in the echoes of a furious, ‘Why?’ Life’s short, but seconds paradoxically turn into hours or even days when your heart’s broken. I love ferociously, losing myself in the process and I guess that’s why I’m an unsolved, uncared for jigsaw puzzle now. You tore my heart in two, and made me crawl into my already broken shell, hoping Fate won’t crush me with his hobnailed boots. And now your indifference creates this bereaved cacophony – the jar, the scratch, the voices and the judgement forming this atonal crack and thud, and I’m unable to find balance or closure. I say I don’t love you anymore, but that statement’s both true and untrue, both red and blue if emotion is metaphor. I don’t want you back, but I can’t live without you, and that’s the sliver of despair that grows and subsides, that inflates and deflates, that causes outbursts and silent sobs.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)