He

tenderly

whispered

that

he

loved

me;

pressing his soft lips

gently against

my ear as he

drove the

crooked

knife

into

my

back.

Darling, if you only knew

How your voice roars

Louder than any thunder

Your soul's melody, more powerful

Than waves pounding against the rocky shore

Flowers begin to grow

Every time your soft soles kiss the Earth

Your eyes - a sea of green and blue hues

The universe bows before you

You are not as small as you think

My child,

You could manifest anything beyond your wildest dreams

Please don't leave me.

I know it's hard. I know life's hard. I know this world has torn you down over and over.

But don't go. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I love you. I love you. I love you.

God damn it.

Okay.

I know this isn't even poetry anymore or even a piece of decent literature. You've always been the better one at this anyways. It's just I don't think I can tell you how much I need you. 

You live on the other side of the damn world yet I can't help but think of you as my best friend. And I know life is such crap and that you just can't take it anymore. You don't deserve that. But I'm going to be selfish and tell you the truth. I don't deserve this. 

This pain of not knowing whether I'll see your face on my screen ever again or if you'll alive long enough for me to meet you in person. Counting days between our goodbyes is like holding my breath and praying that you'll be okay. That life will be okay.

But I know that life isn't okay. This world sucks. I know. I know. I know. Just please don't make this world worse for me.

Stay. For me, if not you.

The unsung song of that songbird

that always would sing

Handing out sparks 

with freshly ground coffee 

at 8 am in the morning 

She'll always be a good girl 

leaving trails of fragments

as her sun would rise

and his slowly set 

Might forever be 

passionate kisses 

and words

on top of words 

on top of worlds 

on top of silence 

between chemical connections 

gluing together 

disconnected synapses 

along strings of intangible hair 

in sighs of pleasures 

as stillness would rise;

Because flickering, fluttering winter storms 

Somewhere beyond right and wrong

departing trails of his butterfly guilt 

flaring away in soft phrases he'd say

building a cabin on walls that she built

away 

       and away                                                                 There is a Garden

                     and away 

                                 and away

                                               "I will meet you there" 

He is always on the rocking chair. The floor creaks when he rocks the chair but mostly he is asleep. My memory has no other picture of my Grandpa - Sleeping on a rocking chair with his head hanging on one side and mouth slightly open just enough to hold the saliva from dripping down. His holey vest at some point in time must have been white, I was not born then. The newspaper is mostly spread on his belly like a blanket. I rarely see him read. He grumbles when he rocks, “Witches, all of them are witches.”

He is perched on the chair by the time I wake up. I know he sleeps on the bed because it is rumpled in the morning. Father makes his bed before taking me to school. It remains intact till my bedtime.

Sometimes when he is awake I sit on his lap. A pleasingly pungent odour comes from him. The newspaper crumples when I sit, but he doesn’t mind it.

“Grandpa, everyone has a Grandpa and a Grandma, even if they are in family photographs. Where is my Grandma?”

“She flew away on a broomstick.” he replies.

“What?” I exclaim. “How can anyone fly on a broomstick? They will fall.”

“Witches do.” he says with a crooked smile. Most of his teeth are broken. He looks scarily comical when he smiles.

“And mother?” I try my luck for another answer.

“She too was a witch.” he remarks.

“It is time for school, Sonny.” Dad calls out from the porch.

I jump off and run out. I never say goodbye to Grandpa. We never hug. He does not even accompany me to the park like Pete’s Grandfather.

I hold Dad’s finger as we walk to school. I like his finger it is long and warm. Sometimes when we cross the road he holds my hand. I like that too.

“Dad, why don’t I have a mother?”

Dad doesn’t answer questions. He doesn’t even ask many.

“Was mother a witch?” I ask.

“Who told you so?” he questions in return. I like this topic. Dad even looked at me.

’Grandpa said that my mother was a witch. Is it true?”

“I don’t know, Sonny. If Grandpa says so, it may be true.”

I don’t like this answer. There must be more to the story.

“He said even Grandma was a witch.” I try my luck for some more conversation with Dad.

“I don’t know, Sonny.” Dad replies.

“Then how does Grandpa know? How can he recognise witches?”

“It is his rocking chair, Sonny. The chair gives Grandpa the power to recognise and drive witches away from home.”

“Really Dad!” I exclaim but that is the end of our conversation. I have a few more questions but I know Dad will not speak any further.

I return home in the evening. Grandpa is asleep on his rocking chair. I know he will answer my questions but I will have to wait till he wakes up.

The sun has set. Dad is at the door. He has returned from work.

“Sonny” he calls out and heads towards Grandpa. I run downstairs.

“Did you speak to Grandpa after you returned from school?” he asks.

This is the second question from Dad in one day. The first one was “Who told you mother was a witch?”

“He was asleep when I returned, Dad.”

Once again Dad is quiet. He is moving around checking something on Grandpa. He touches his forehead, lifts his hand by the wrist and does a few other things which I do not understand. Grandpa does not wake up.

Some people have gathered in the living room. We barely have furniture for them to sit. Grandpa is gone. The rocking chair is empty.

I am curious to check the magic in the chair. Will I also get the power to drive witches away? I shall wait till tomorrow morning. The house will be empty. Only Dad and I will remain.

I run down to Grandpa’s room in the morning. The bed is made. The rocking chair...

Dad is sitting on the rocking chair. He is in his vest. It is white and doesn’t have any holes. The floor creaks. Dad is rocking the chair.

“Witches, they all are witches.” he says. He doesn’t sound like Grandpa but he continues to say it like a chant.

The rocking chair now belongs to Dad. I will wait for my turn to drive the witch away.

And as we spent the night

speaking words 

of unforgivable sins

You traced a map 

across your brain 

with your eyes 

and mouth 

revealing 

flickering shards

of beauty

and it grew in my guts 

ready to expand 

like a thousand of 

particles 

eradicating 

- like a storm before the sun

Around your veins 

and down your spine

to let your shadows

come undone

A moment's thought chain smoked to pass the time hiking the barren miles of sleepless nights

I hear her culling shrieks sounding after mine

pleading a cacophony of lies

Listening to loquaciously laced pillows decay-nay-

devoured down to a dull din of exhausted acquiescence

Our precious words shriveled, impotent, buzzing about deaf ears, spoken by mute mouths

only to be heard and again spoken by that damned nymph

Yes, I have spared her a thought-

I thought she ought not be spared

Her longing echoed by our own fatuous declarations