Salacious conversations,

Long into the night,

I wonder if this is the creation,

Of something that could be so right.

My heart melts and my mind whirls,

As I ponder this firestorm,

With my heart beginning to unfurl,

Still, im compelled to scorn.

How do I describe what I feel,

When I cannot understand,

How can this be real,

When I've been hurt so beforehand.

Trusting doesn't come effortlessly,

When pain has been your best friend,

Still impassioned continously,

I cannot stop this descent.

All those couples I see have it.

You want us to be together,

So we'll probably need it

This thing they call chemistry.

Sorry friend, but I was never

Any good at science. You know that.

Reality, age gracing adolescent faces through workloads and heartache, taints the purity of simple enjoyments.

Sleep, initially used to rejuvenate, solely strips away the daily anxieties of life.

Food, intended to nurture and sustain, becomes burdensome or an unhealthy attempt to gain contentment.

Home, meant for peace and happiness, exposes its doors to violence and overbearing outbursts.

Friends, opening their arms to entertain and bring joy, point fingers and whisper suspiciously regarding their "favorite acquaintance".

Lovers, stumbling over empty compliments and actions of affection, grasp after lust.

Blades, assisting to strip plastic from intricate packaging, comfort broken hearts and open gateways to self-control.

Ropes, initially securing boats to land, dangle in loops to steal prosperous futures.

Reality, instilling fear and dread into anxious minds, lifts away the virtues of youth.

The world today seems to be going crazy

With people believing what they see on TV

Everyone has become complacent and lazy

And in the process losing their humanity.

Women and children are dying,

Innocent people are bombed

Why do we sit here lying

About those whom we have wronged?

Blame won't make the violence stop

Ignorance won't change a thing

We need to stop focusing on one lot

Of people we are persecuting.

Islam isn't an entity

That is the cause of everything

Islamic people are deserving of empathy

They are also a human being.

My watch reads 9:07 a.m.

Flickering fluorescents.

Yellow stained teeth.

Bright pink lipstick.

Ill executed good intentions.

Her voice drones on.

Stale coffee breath.

Why are these chairs so close?

Slanted wall frame.

She's looking.

Oh. She's looking at me. Nod.

I'm not sure what I answered but it's obviously sufficient as she continues on.

Focus. Watch her mouth form the words. Focus. Try to listen.

Fuck. It's pointless.

Excess lipstick fills the wrinkles of her lips.

Her eyeliner droops on one side.

Her glasses have left an indentation.

The picture on her desk, a young family.

She has kids and grandkids.

No wedding ring on her finger. Divorced, widowed, or simply unmarried.

Motivational posters plaster an entire wall.

I check the reflection of her computer screen in a photo behind her. 9:35 a.m.

I can't check my watch again. It's rude.

"It's okay, we can help you get through this."

I stare at her. I want to believe that so incredibly much it consumes me entirely.

Can she? Can they? Can I? Will it all "be okay"? Will I finally be more than fine?

This is happening.

She's talking. I sign something.

10:00 a.m.

I didn't eat breakfast. I probably won't eat lunch either. I'm never hungry anymore.

I get up, gather my things and exchange pleasantries.

I walk to my car. I'm tired. 10:45 a.m.

I drop my keys on the table. I fall into bed.

I sleep.

You've asked me what my pain feels like.

It feels like this.

It feels like exactly nothing

accompanied by sheer exhaustion.

The radio is gone.  Everything is so silent.

They're not coming to get me, are they?

They're not coming to get me.  It seems strange to me, but I can't say I blame them.  I'm wondering how I survived being thrown off of the ship myself.  They must certainly think I'm gone.

Won't be too long until they're right.

The worst thing about all of this is that there's nothing else I can do.  Best I can tell, we passed through a deep-space debris field.  My turn to head out to the hull to do routine maintenance and this happens. Figures, doesn't it?  In any case, my thrusters are shot to hell.  My radio must have been hit by some rock or another.  Can't move, can't tell anyone that I can't move.  Worse yet, they can't radio out to me to see if I'm alright.  For all they know, I'm already gone.

Too bad I couldn't have taken a rock to, well, anywhere on my suit.  Or to my oxygen tanks.  Would've saved me the trouble of thinking about all of this.

I can still see the rings of the ship.  They keep getting smaller.  Drifting forwards towards a new world.

Or am I drifting away?

Everything else is all so black. Dropped off between planets, left to admire such perfect darkness. If I weren't about to die, it would be one of the more beautiful things I've ever seen. But context matters, I guess.

And the silence.  So unbroken.  No static, no chatter, no nothing.  I never thought I'd experience something so serene.  If this is what it takes, though, I prefer noise.

Now, if they're not coming, I can either drift through space aimlessly until I dehydrate, or make this quicker.

Let's uncouple this helmet, shall we?

OCD is my father

When he's drunk and

laughing at me

and his breath is whiskey and 

black tea

and his lips are stiff and 

bitter mean 

and his words are

"are you sure you counted one hundred and fifty two cars? 

because I counted one hundred and fifty three."

That beautiful pen

Your 9th grade teacher gave you.

That box with a message

From your high school bestfriend.

That house batch

That you used for school.

That heart pendant

From your first boy friend.

Those random notes

Exchanged during classes.

That gorgeous saree

You wore for your farewell.

The first fountain pen

You ever bought.

And hundred such other things

That you can't seem to let go of .

And all those things

That lie at the back of your cupboard,

That you look at every once in a while

And remember all those crazy times.

Give me the wings

of streamlined blue heron

I was born to fly

above melancholy vistas,

no teardrops on my feathers

soaring above capture, dipping

and gliding like windblown kite.

Skimming back and forth

through gilded thoughts.

Washed at midnight

by soothing moonbeams.

sparks of stars igniting,

opening wings

to life’s possibilities.

Peering down at shadow

of myself through veil

of patched sunlight,

staring gravity

in its face.

Gliding without weight

wind at my back

sunrises kisses

and serenity breaths.

Flying in a cradle

of beamed illumination.

Stretched wings of freedom.