Its Nothing


Ting. . . Ting. . .the bell beats itself into a ring that no one hears. It’s almost as if the air knows it’s the insignificant calling out of a child’s bicycle, there is nobody paying attention to this here. . .

Green, yellow, warm- dusk has a funny way of moving me. Put that together with the Sunday evening distant but not far-away sounds of the children at play and I am suddenly struck by a feeling of panic. It roots itself in my stomach and seeps into my being like the anxious exhale of a joint that’s promised to be a bad trip.

Old. There is something is about this feeling. It is blue. So gripping in its blue that melancholy changes its colors, green, yellow, warm poured down by a feeling of blue.

Blue was never meant to be a color.

The clothes chuckle in the evening balcony, hanging by the knee of the wall, hiding from the vain society I live in. Somehow the very clothes we all need and wear and must faithfully cover ourselves up in, are too shameful to air out. But who’s listening.

I rebel against the creeping orange, black, grey ghost of a feeling this dusk brings.

Yet another day meeting its maker in a mindless charade we can never truly know the purpose of. The whys, the hows and ultimates of existence all knead my empty stomach into dough and I sense a feeling like I want to vomit the air right out of me.

Yellow. A tiny piece of paper with notes I have folded and folded and kept “safe” a million times before. I cannot crumple it into the fire and I won’t sit down and look at it either.

Dreams. What sodomy imprinted in me this desire for more. Half knowing how well I fool myself, half hating it, I bite down another pep-talk and think about what deception truly means.

I am always better than I am right now, and I am always just as unwilling.

The curtain laughs a hearty one against my window and I think about the glow of this room on the outside.

Warm. Yellow. True.

Someone must wish they lived here.





Kisses. Awkward at first. And then. . . poetry. Your lips talk in languages I have always known but never dared whisper. Unlock me. 
Unlock these unspoken bars caged within the chastity of my mind.
Free me. 
Like an animal, in silence, pull me closer with your eyes, and unhinge this dullness- break into me.
Like the summer rain. Like the winter tide, like the curling of a wave between my lips, as I case them upon yours. 
Taste me.
Let my name pour through the atmosphere of our coupling that when our lips do part, you can still feel me. 

The essence of your soul concentrates into madding moments of unplanned sorcery. You have to be magic.
I can tell by the way our tongues paint secrets against each other that only we can uncover this mystery.

At first I hesitate until I let it take over me. love. monsters. madness. 

The difference is poetry.  



Dear you,

Before you left, I was sunshine. I was light and love and sparkles and dreams; before you left, I was more than just a name.

Now a ghost am I. A tired whisper disappearing even before it was made.

Before you left, I was energy. I was alcohol and cigarettes and revelry. Before you left, I was meaning.

Now just a word am I, unspelled yet, and unassembled.

Dear you. . . now I am desperation. A wordless stranger seeking conversations with the air.

See there’s a hole you left behind. This hole. . . So vast and yawning, gaping ever still, with a view within so breathtaking.

Inside are pieces. Little, tiny pieces of a life before you left. Inside are dreams, galaxies and galaxies of dreams, all walking in the silence. Inside there are the cosmos, quietly under play; and there, far from my reach, deeper, and deeper still, is you.

Dear you. . . these sand bags aren’t helping. Something’s got to give. Can you stop the flood gates and just teach me how to live?


To Christmas

It’s been a while since I’ve felt you. It’s been long since I lay starry eyed under winter skies, swearing I could hear the jingle jangle tinkle of your bells in the air.

It’s been a while since I’ve smiled.

From nothing, to nothing more, I now lay ensconced and curled between grief and a time I can barely remember.

I was once your child.

Dear Christmas, nostalgic suns glaze my eyes and I smell tears in the fire place. Winter no longer sings, while a burning summer heats the lines on my feet, the oracle forgot to read.

These scars are hard to interpret.

I feel the earth mourn under reaching tips of these yearning toes, as we vibrate in the frequency of pain. There’s terrible silence at work again.

Desperate, I write letters to death pleading a return on orders placed wrongly under my name. Back. Back.Back. I no longer inch ahead. Lost between whispers of a life, and the loss of all the dead.

Dear Chirstmas, it seems I misspell you as often as you elude me. Will you ever again come to me? This pulse throbs in violent threats, as I lose all synonyms for pain.

Dear Christmas, if I may, I must. One wish through the screens of collecting dust-bring your best soldiers forward, have your missiles aimed.

Do what you must, to turn the light on from within.

I Talk to You

I talk to you in verses. I talk to you in tears after a long day of laughs that still leaves me dry throat and gasping.

I talk to you in mid dream madness when I half-wake,  conscious in a world where you’re just not there.

Weighed down, cages aching, I talk to you in salty sighs that heave up and recede, slapping a Tsunami on my soul like a storm with an eerie lurk, I cannot dodge. The sirens have been going off for eighty four days today, and I stand waiting while this wave fights gravity just above me.

The seagulls screeching nervous echos in the distance.

So I keep talking. I talk to you wholeheartedly confused. I missed you in a blink and my eyes still try to catch up with this haze you left me in. I fit you in places, everywhere, and then my mind beats me into bruises I can never explain.

I talk to you through others. In them I tramp for bits and pieces of you. Their words smell of you, and like a child of the streets, I pour them into water just to breathe them in. But then the fall is harder. . .Still I’m back for more.

I talk to you in silent seconds, in the quiet between notes when a song needs no words and the melody keeps me floating. In the adagio I can share a nothingness with you, so sweet.

And it goes on. So unending that it hurts. And the darkness keeps spreading, it twirls like a drop of ink on milk and it smokes all around me.

The path isn’t clear, destiny rattles against the concave cages of a year that has changed the geometry of my soul; so alien this new topography.

Things unsense. Things unmake. Things laced with a fear I had never known before. Nothing is familiar here. Nothing, but a twanging, bursting, hurling pain.

There. I talk to you there.



Nitin 2

I search for you like the last penny in a nickel jar; you rattle at the bottom of an endless chink I cannot crack. I feel you flutter faintly in a mock, but I tire from the effort it takes to roll you up and make you mine.


You’ve jaded me from the little joys I knew- Like words. Like the cursive rolling of them round the edges of my tongue, wet, ripe and hungry for their lustful coupling. Their fleshy purple sighs echoed sentences across the post apocalyptic green corridors of my mind.There, in the silence. .. after all had been said, and said and said again, were my words- dancing in a naked ceremonial mating.
And now we sit across the canvas of our minds like tired lovers who let too much time pass.


It’s funny, you died and I can’t seem to let myself live. So I summon silence and let the quiet take over. I tie each day to the other, forgetting where one ends and the other begins. The emptiness covers me softly like a child in womb, and I can sleep again. . . Anyone who said ‘numbness’ was a cliche, never had to lose a you. Well I’ll bargain every cliche I have, for you. To have you. To find you. To feel you. To go back to the traces of me you took with you.


I’m beginning to forget you. And the secret makes me quieter. You’re being doctored deep deep deep into those spaces no one else can find, and I’m afraid you’ll stay there forever; in those armored suits I was trying to pawn off for some happiness.


Your absence leaves me with sentences left unfinished and thoughts abandoned even before they can breathe.

So I leave every thought half felt, and every effort incomplete.