And time had me

I spent two hours with the rain.

Sandals

I should have asked you
Before I decided to naughtily wade
In that puddle of rain
Now I hear your disapproving squeaks.

Nonstop Rain

This morning I spent so much of my time with you. Yesterday I was in discomfort. Then I tried to dry the dampness by frivolity. I could sleep at the end of all the exhibitionism. This morning came with so many prospects for the future. Promises of fame and fortune. Which would demand intense madness that comes with unwavering concentration, of course. And then began dainty pain. I read his poetry. Ravisubramanian. And it left my mind disturbed with inspiration. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away from the urge to create. It would mean endless suffering. Why do beautiful people drag me into their lives all over again?

And then you started. I wanted to drive away the passion with superficiality. And dismissal. But you started sending your fragrances into my olfactory lobes and kindled in me the love that I wanted to forget. And you drove me restless. And his villainous imagery. Why does beauty come back to haunt my lonely existence?

Love. I cannot deny you with theories and cynicism. You just exist beyond these extrapolations. In rain you come innocently bare naked and strip me of my nonchalance. And you shatter my filters and leave them spattered all over the floor in a thousand pieces that reflect me. And I laugh in relief. Tragic shameless adorable enemy love. Translucent burlesque artist love. Sideshow love. Striptease love. Damned love. Damned rain. Hahahaha! How I laugh now!

Between puffs of smoke, a cup of coffee, and chocolate I tried to drown your infinite thrumming in my lonely ears. But you just rampaged into my space. Invasive sniper love. I love you so much.

And I had time for little flowers in the puddle of water. I had time for the leaves tantalizing me with their sheen. I felt like a bohemian cow let loose in a field of rainbow poetry. And my hair was all over my face while I laughed in eccentric helplessness. To myself. They might want to lock me up. 🙂

And time had me. My glasses were misty with steamy love. My clothes were wet with drippy love. My hair was disheveled with moist love. My sandals were squeaky with seeping love. My books were damp with soaking love.

The leaves innocuously sat on my vehicle seat like accidental polka dots. And words are gestating and wilting at lightning speed in my mind. And I run after them. These torrents of freedom pelt me like love-loaded pain kisses. I’m deprived of umbrellas. I dream of stained-glass pieces. My mind is coming undone in broken kaleidoscopic bangle bits. I thirst.

The ferns quiver. Thunder strikes like a sudden dog bark on a lonely road. I tremble. Notebooks should melt. Words should die. Memory should die in experience. Writing should never happen. Writing is an inadequate whore that attempts to repeat in shreds, the intricacies of an infinite magnum opus. Like a repetitive drone. Incantation. Cacophony. Writing is craving to repeat. To relive. And writing can never quench. Memory can never make up for existence.

Here I am. Like a dragonfly battling against an invisible glass wall. Why won’t this sky admit me into its folds? Why does the space between then and now stretch like a chasm without a bridge? And why does this leap of imaginary faith, fail? In a certain lobe in my brain where the founts of deja vu live… I wish an infinitesimal error occurred… and I would relive it all over again. I wish regression was irrevocable and I would be stuck in a place where I cannot see and I cannot interpret. And I can only be.

Rain. Bloody rain. This love is…

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