I haven’t written in a while, it seems like the words have abandoned me,
like all your organic teas, forgotten, sitting in the silence of the storm,
words are right here, in between the lines of my palms, lines dictating my destiny
dictating what we were and could have been,
but they refuse to align and bleed through the tips, they refuse.
The memories are right here, they cling to my carpet, jeans, office hours, dreams, metro rides, coming home, what is home?
Scattered like the pieces of the chair you built one Sunday in march, it fell apart on Monday,
ashes in the elephant ashtray call your name sometimes in the middle of the night
or maybe I like to pretend it’s not my lips, everything but my lips
My skin without yours is pale white, tapering off, my house unfurnished without your heart.
They complain about water in Delhi,
They complain about electricity in Delhi,
They fall in love in Delhi, I miss you
I complain about my boss in Delhi,
I complain about not writing enough in Delhi,
I complain about losing you in Delhi,
I miss you and not just in Delhi,
They complain about same sex love. They accept love. I miss you,
They complain about love under the fans, under the trees, they fall in love under the fans,
under the oceans, under each other, I miss you,
Everything smells like that stupid ginger tea you loved so much,
and nothing tastes like your lips, I miss you.
One Sunday back in winter, you took a project to build me, I told you I wear my insecurities tighter than the turtlenecks, and I will forever be chained by them.
Your clouds burst in my house, rusted my chains, you got your tools and began building the bed,
you wedged your love in between my lungs and throat,
my heart is still drowning in that flood, I pick up the tools and rebuild that chair everyday, I miss you.
I miss you, I miss you
and you are gone, and words and syllables also need time to heal.