Cilice

I wear my unhappinesses on my sleeve

Carefully rolled up and tucked away

Never farther than two fingers’ reach

I work, with my laughter elbow deep,

Cuffs stained with streaks of artifice

While I prevaricate- wherefrom do I secede?

As the painfully cultivated illusions recede-

I pluck my hems unconsciously

Too nervous to confess or deceive

So I hide it all, in plain sight

I wear my unhappiness on my sleeve

I save my lonelinesses for the night

Where I can, uninterrupted, keep sole company

Judge, witness, lawyer, mob, and jury

Pass my own sentences, give verdict

Justify and deny with equal practice

I weigh the twilight of dawn against dusk

Somewhere, in betwixt, sleep visits us

And all the hopes gentle pass into the void

-the cold warmth of pillow on pillow, on my side

Subterfuge borne of necessity

-but an expedient ploy

So I save my lonelinesses, for the night

And mornings come fraught

with anticipation, overwrought

with promises, potential, all these glorious things

hovering just out of reach,

but not out of thought

All these fallacies and fantasies

That I am capable of – but I’m not

I need my sorrow like monks their cilices

A reminder to self, even when not displayed

Even when rolled up and tucked neat away

I work with my laughter, loud and elbow deep

But never farther than two fingers’ reach

I wear my unhappinesses on my sleeve

.

.

.

Cilice

©️Yusra

06.09.2018

⚫️♥️⚫️

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Of Gods and Men III

I was talking to a friend yesterday, about the problem with the notion of love.

Specifically, how being cynical robs you of the so-called ‘honeymoon period’. You never have the initial few weeks where you see the other with rose tinted glasses. Where all their eccentricities are still cute and endearing, rather than being nails-on-a-chalkboard intolerable. Cynicism and a healthy wariness of love never lets you experience the euphoria that brings.

At the same time, it seems as though it’d be a distinct advantage to going into something with your eyes wide open. Fear and vulnerabilities aside, maybe starting with a rational acknowledgment and acceptance of imperfections would be a better foundation weather the inevitable storms.

Maybe it’s just the pragmatism of surrender speaking, having been utterly defeated by that one and only attempt at loving madly that I could muster. Rationale makes for a sturdy excuse.

Or maybe, this is what my version of hope is going to be. But I’m finding- loving smart is so much more difficult than loving hard.

Here’s to falling, one way or the other, and hopefully flying.

Love and light,

Cookie ❤

Moon Man

There’s something about black eyes that are endlessly darker than the night.

They sparkle- as do the glances- in a setting paler than the moon, yet harder to gaze at than the sun.

What do you do, when you can’t look, and you can’t look away?

I suppose you lapse into writing these mouthfuls of the night you can’t swallow anymore.

I suppose I can’t swallow anymore.

And while I am ashamed and relieved for the respite this eclipse brings-

Moon man, where did you go?

A Glass Of You 

A Glass Of You 

A glass of you 

Just for me 

Would sustain my soul

For eternities 

But I chase you

And I taste you 

Like the traces of fragrance 

That lost its way 

A few faded moonbeams

Forgotten on the earth after

The break of day 

Like fresh water lost in 

The salt of the ocean 

A thought centered by its

Own gravity, in the midst 

Of perpetual motion

No, my heart

You would leave me to starve

And I happily would too

We lovers, seemingly,

Aspire to sink 

And you could nourish me

If you were as real

As substantial 

As the bitter words I drink 

Some nights we pour, 

We smile, and

We down

Some nights, we laugh

And

We 

Drown 

©CM

10.03.2017 

Because beer contains more calories than your love‘- Sumit Goreja

Half Past Three

 

I love you unbelievably
As though it is a still life that I’m
Drawn into a corner of,
There’s cities and wars and happiness
And there’s you in it too
with no
Beginning nor end in sight

As though oceans skim the meaning,
Existence touches the surface
And the faint specks of black in your eyes are
The depths of years and years of nights

I love you so indistinguishably from
Any fathomable stretch of imagination
The roots are lost in incomprehension
I look around but
I don’t know how I got here

The stars settle in the creases of your smile
Absences and evanescences deny me
Immolation
Or absolution
It’s not clear

What are emptinesses? What are seas?
What are galaxies between you and me?
When it’s dark and unnaturally silent, and the wind is digging its teeth into my hands, and yet
You’re still the most real thing to me at half past three
There’s a moon somewhere, or time, or cigarettes
And I look at you, and always feel a little breathless
Or maybe they all burn the same way away undefeatedly

But it’s half past three
And it’s not clear
How I got here
But I love you
Unbelievably

 

 

 

Half Past Three

©CM

07.02.2017

 

 

These winter nights.. You can’t blame me. 🙂

 

Half Past Two 

  

Sometimes, words come to you at two thirty in the night. 

You don’t know the words yet. They hover just beyond the edge of consciousness. Half of them you want to attribute to epiphany. Half of them you know belong to a fever slowly coming down. 

Words. They grow like that, sometimes. 

And you find yourself leaving a comfortable bed, shrugging off a warm blanket that you suddenly can’t breathe under. And you know that it’s simultaneously too hot there, yet too cold and too empty to be lying in, all of a sudden. And the one warm body that could possibly make any of this livable is so, so far away at that moment. You can’t change that. Sometimes, he won’t even let you change it. 

Bodies. They rebel like that, sometimes. 

So you walk out to the porch, staying on the dark side, the one the harsh streetlight hasn’t stained golden yellow. You sit on yesterday’s newspaper that the wind threw to the floor, and you learn against the wall. You’re not sleeping, you’re wide, wide awake. The dream like quality of all this is painted deeper by the words that your heart promises will come. Sometimes they do come that way. But words are capricious, occasionally on purpose. They like to needle, to hurt a little, and watch the game play out. 

Hearts. They’re much of the same. They hurt like that, sometimes. 

This night’s chill is not good. My feet are wet from the dew, and I’m coughing again. Morning will be work, no more sick days left. And yet I’m loathe to leave this bare boarded surface, where the splinter is digging under my thumbnail. Boards are not meant to gripped for comfort. 

But neither are nights. And the edges of this one are painted with promises, and words, and the hope of a warm body who will look at mine and smile, and his heart won’t be capricious even when mine is. And till the moon goes down and the stars fade away, this breathlessness will stay with me, because none of that might happen, but the words still might. Sometimes, they do that. 

Twilight and trees, sleepless eyes and empty hearts. They come together like that, sometimes. 

My heart is so full, that I may burst

At the seams of my being, but yet 

I can’t kill this thirst

I walk this knife edge, veins 

Alight with madness 

Feverish wanderings compelling me

To gamble the dredges of sanity 

Tiptoeing reality, tonight

It’s not hard to do 

Speaking in the silences

I lie in the one place you’ll never be

And I watch for you 

Half Past Two 
©CM 

02.02.2017 

Bugs 

 

Stupid bug
On my bed
Go crawl on the
Floor, instead.
I already have buzzing
Inside my head

Burrowing beetle
arguments
Thoughtflies hum and
Make no sense
Buzz buzz buzz
Incoherence

Twinkling lights-it’s
Almost dawn
Neighbor’s cat yowls
On my lawn
-You’re nearly in my hair
Come closer if you dare
Ill squish you, bug, I swear

Sigh
Carry on, bug
Carry on

©CM
09.10.2016

 

I actually don’t mind bugs, but when you’re trying to fall asleep, a green yellow beetle who wants to sing you the song of his people is not a good roommate.