you live still
in the blurred polaroids of my mind—
your face dissolving into silver,
mine into someone i cannot quite find.
i loved you once
with the fervour of an unwritten psalm,
and though the wanting has gone quiet,
the love still lingers, warm.
perhaps i miss you;
perhaps i miss the girl who loved you—
the softer version of myself
that time, like winter, outgrew.
we both became strangers
to the people we once knew,
yet i keep your photographs
the way old libraries keep books
whose endings they already knew.
i do not wish to have you again,
nor become who i was before—
i only wish i could tell that girl
she was worth loving, even more.
so let the polaroids remain blurred;
some things are kinder without view—
for sometimes, loving what we lost
means learning to love
who we became too.
After the paint
has dried
all they're left with
are false pictures
Internal fixtures
externalized
masquerading
as truth
The truth is
their mask hides
the lies but exposes
what's true regardless
They're artist of
a different kind
Kind words for those
conning their way
with heartless acts
Me?
I rhyme with facts
not looking to sway
you or any other
I pour from a cup
that runneth over
& spill only what
I intend to tithe
When my cascade
aligns and falls
there's no running
for cover nor packs
in which to hide
What befalls you
is as liquid as the paint
used to tar & feather
I'm transparently lucid
whether you're far
or near sighted
I could never
feel slighted by
eyes in dire need
of glasses
I inspire you
to see without eyes
to counteract it
Those cataracts
insofar as I can see
has blinded them
with fake glee
Slowly but surely
they're starting to see
what it is & isn't
cracked up to be
perroquet avenue lips
poems and polaroids
pornitography
hariness
protected by vickies
cleavite libertinism
third base
strobe-lit memories
slang..
perroquet = a delicious, minty French alcoholic drink
avenue = a shade of deeply red lipstick
vickies = victoria's secrets
cleavite = untanned areas usually covered by a bathing suit, and thus pale
third base = come ON, everyone knows
Memories of my childhood
are Polaroids of nostalgic cards
instant colored snapshots of my every action
from the day of my birth to the day I took my first steps
from the day I first started school to the day I learnt to ride a bike
I believed my childhood days would always be unfathomable
the most colossal deception about life living
that’s the problem I have with Polaroids
Birthday number eighteen
was the most unfavorable day of my puerile life
the once flashy, picturesque Polaroids of my childhood
slowly vanished into the dark and foggy stockade of heartbreak
before my very black eyes, while drizzling
unsweetened tears of a cheerless adulthood
that’s the problem I have with Polaroids
this sunday morning,
there were lesser chirps,
faded rays
and muffled words.
the refrigerator still reads,
"happy anniversary",
with a photograph of us.
the same date,
the same face,
the same love,
but a different year.
there were music bands,
there were long drives
to abandoned lands.
the kitchen fights,
the second pizza bites,
the mended heart
and then the collapse.
did you burn our Polaroid,
the way you flared us?
this sunday morning,
there were lesser chirps,
faded rays
and muffled words.
i lie down
on the kitchen floor,
holding his letter,
looking at the ashes,
tiny pieces
that are left of us.
"It was 12am and my google calendar pinged, Happy Anniversary. I was half drunk and almost raged. I destroyed the journal with your poems in it, only to realise our Polaroid was burning too.
I woke up and I found your letter in the mail".
piles of
all the letters
i could never send.
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