Why do I keep dreaming of you?
Your fingers, intertwined with hers
Your face, dimmed when it was me and you,
now beamed with confidence
Was it meaningless or was it a vision?
I must have known —
when she comes back,
there would no longer be an argument
I would be called out of my lies
of how we were different;
We were the best of friends
when she was far, a figment
Don’t stop. Talk.
Talk about those things we know about. Talk about the new Black Panther movie that you love so much. Talk about everything you know about Christopher Nolan and Wes Anderson. Talk about The Dark Knight. Tell me everything you know about method acting. Tell me about The Grand Budapest Hotel. Tell me about the way Wes Anderson’s movie scenes were shot. Tell me about Sicario. Tell me about I Kill Giants. Explain to me the incorporation of culture and women empowerment in movies. Explain how Hollywood is changing. Explain how post-racialism is nonsense, and discuss with me how Django: Unchained proved it. Show me your passion for movies and joy for acting. Show me the fire and excitement that keep you alive inside. I will listen.
Talk about nothings because nothings keep us present. Don’t mention my anger or your indifference. Don’t mention other people because they are not here. Don’t mention her because you love her and don’t mention him because it shames me. Talk instead about the road and the night and the striking full moon and how they are all ours. We connect in our disconnection to the world, and so it is safe for me to visit that night again and again and again for a temporary zen.
Today, when they ask me to imagine a safe place, my thoughts will run to you, your motorbike, and the road with which we have become too familiar.
You’re in a tough spot again, aren’t you? You left your comfort zone, ended a best-friendship, opened up too soon, fell too fast, and shared too much. Then you got lost in your head.
There is only one me and there is only one you. There is only one us and there is only one this. Oh, how I wish this will last!
I am the leaves in autumn, falling on the bed of grass and deserted roads with a trust equaled by none when it comes to you.
The angels, and the angels alone, will be my witness when I swear to God how grateful I am for us, even when tomorrow belongs to the unknown.
Good afternoon, my treasured friend. On an afternoon we began, and on an afternoon I remembered you. That day is forever with us, and trust is forever different when it isn’t in you.
If tomorrow all change, none will be forgotten.
For now, I am counting the days until we see each other again.
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
Was it only a dream
or was it something unsaid;
something both of us hide
to avoid more twists and turns
Was it something you feel
or was it something I wish;
something we try to conceal
because things have happened
that we do not know
how to handle
things have happened
that we do not know
how to deal with
even with so much that we know
even with those words we exchanged —
even with the translucence
we wear as facades
of our abundant sentiment
and with the translucence
we pride ourselves on,
as an attempt at a diversion,
we hide the secrets undeclared,
the confidential attachment
even from us
Have you got a glimpse of your alternate life?
“What’s wrong with her? She sent me all these messages about how I’m unempathetic, how I’m not a good listener, how my responses were dull. Does she have a problem with me?”
I started my morning calling Faye, apart by four hours ahead. She was already on her way home from her morning job. It was only in moments like this that we could talk: when she was commuting and I was already at the office hours before the day started.