Not Quite Goodbye

A/N: Here you go. Makeshift poetry. I'm stuck in this rut where I write about coffee and wine and occasionally a cigarette, a gender-ambiguous narrator, one or two male or female companions, a relationship maybe, that is either beginning or thriving or dying and exactly one sentence in the story/poem that is vaguely poetic and used as the title of the story/poem(whichever I feel like writing pretending to write at the moment).
And that's about it. Maybe, just maybe I should write something new.
End of italicized garbage. On to the real garbage.
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She is still around, I see her the first thing every morning when I wake up and the last thing every night before I sleep. I can't reach out and hold her hand, or tuck in that stray strand of hair like I used to.

We still smile, we still laugh. I make tea in the morning. She makes breakfast. She still makes the things I like. I sometimes wonder why.

We don't talk as much as we once did, it's like we're actual roommates now, now that she has moved into the guest room.

She insisted, I tried to persuade her to let me move out instead. She stopped talking to me until I stopped trying.

It's been two months. Why is she still here? She shouldn't be. Why am I still here? We need space, or so they tell me.

She attempts to leave every once in a while, calling me a callous bastard. I attempt to push her out, the lying bitch. At the end of it all someone cries. Someone walks out. Someone gets drunk. And it's the next morning. Everything is forgotten.

We want each other to stay so that we don't have to see the other with anyone else. That's a reason people assume. Maybe because it is easy, we don't have to think anymore. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe in spite of all the lies, a part of me still loves her. Cares about her at the very least. Cares about her enough to know I couldn't bear to see her with anyone else. Not just yet.

All I know for sure though, is that I don't want her to leave just as much as I don't want her to stay. And she feels the same way. And that should suffice, for now.

*

I'm still here. In this house with all our memories. That couch where we'd cuddle watching movies. That bed we used to sleep in.

He still makes tea every morning. I used to like to watch him make tea, clad in his favourite blue boxers, humming a little song as he dusted tea powder onto the boiling milk. I don't watch him now.

I make breakfast for us, occasionally pack lunch. I still make his favourite things, maybe just because it's easier to stick with the pattern.

We still talk, empty conversations, lots of silence. Sometimes fun and lighthearted. Nothing serious though. The word serious screams 'Run!' in his head. Or so I imagine.

I still lie. I try not to. But I do. What does it matter now. It's all over anyway.

We fight occasionally. Someone packs their bags. It's all forgotten once the night passes. Maybe that's how it should be.

It used to be love at one point. True love, even. Whatever that is. But it is not anymore. This had been over for a while, even before decisions were made. So it's okay, I suppose. Very mutual, as they say.

Maybe someday we will get over this and we'll leave this comfortable space we have created for us. Until then this is where I will be.

Stop

Written on 16 June 2015

On my way to the airport this morning, there was a crowd outside a house somewhere near Kayamkulam. The car had to slow down, my uncle saw some kid he knew and called him to the window and asked him what was going on. Or so I thought. When the kid replied with 'Oru pennu' A woman, I realized that he'd asked who died. Thoughts of Mada mada dane, still have a long way to go, floated around for a second.

Was she old?

No, only around twenty or twenty two.

Two nights ago thoughts were of people who are robbed of their lives and loved ones when they least expected it, of how fucking cruel accidents and heart attacks and even more accidents were. And now this.

It's not hard to see why most people are indifferent to or sceptical of the pain of the suicide victim when faced with the pain of those they leave behind. It's their life, really. And their choice whether they want to live it or not, but they've also chosen to take away the lives of anyone that gave a crap about them.

Rumors fly. She was with some guy and he left her, she got knocked up, she couldn't handle failing an exam, she was selfish. Or maybe she wasn't a bad person, maybe she was hurt and abused, maybe she was depressed. All it takes is a second to make a decision and the days following it to plan it. And that's it. You don't get a moment of regret.

It's okay love, it's never as bad as it seems, get help, be happy again. This life doesn't have to be so sad and terrible, there's a lot more to it. A million places to see and claim as memories, a million people to meet and fall in love with, a million experiences. If only someone found you sooner, if only someone has said the right thing at the right time, if only you could see what you have to live for.

It's all a gray area. Sentences float around voicing contradictory opinions. Why not hurt the people who hurt you enough to make you decide to die. What does it take to get hurt anyway, with fragile minds and hearts worn on sleeves. In a few days I'll forget and you will too. The people in this car have forgotten in the time it took me to write this.

All you need is a little bit of love. Or for someone to grab you by the waist and plant you firmly on the ground. A little too late now. When it feels like your world is slowly spiralling to an end, when you want to get rid of everything to find peace, stop for a moment. There's nothing beyond this love, no magical world where the ones who hurt you are punished and you are compensated for your sufferings. Nothing. This is it, this one life. Nothing more.

posted from Bloggeroid

Hello Lonely World

Well. It's been so long that my web browser doesn't auto-complete blogger.com anymore. That the sign in page pops up, almost asking, "Are you sure this is where you want to be? Really? Reaaaally? Would you like a moment to reconsider? Sure? Okay, but if you're going there to make another draft, we're not letting you in next time."

Maybe not so much. Anyhow.

I'm on vacayyshun! I feel happy. There's this tall kid (old man, brat) with nice hair and my son who I've known since he was only 3 feet tall who keep telling me to write and I keep refusing saying I'm all drained out writing love notes for this other fool but maybe I should stop making excuses and share my happiness with the rest of you beautiful people! People? Hello? *crickets chirping*

Yes, yes. This is what I deserve when I desert the few wonderful people who actually gave a rat's arse about what I had to say. Yes, arse. Not ass.

I made biryani today :D It was good, if I may say so myself. What else.

Take a picture of the biryani for now. I'll have another, better structured post in another hour or so.

Hehehehehe I made this :D

Okay, bye.