The Silence of My Voice

Dear A, I'm confused as to how to address you anymore.  Have you cached up on more names now? What's the latest sobriquet? More so, are you able to identify now with any of them? And, don't try to distort the truth to yourself, Ask for help, you're going to be in need of it. And, don't go at it alone,  It will be crushingly vexing, And, don't say no incessantly, It'll make you sound uninspiring, Nobody is going to know you whole immediately, So don't be worried if they judge you, You're about to rattle them. And, labouring isn't always going to affirm fulfilment, So let some ambiguity exist. And, you're irreplaceable, as is everyone, So don't care so much. And, you'll make friends, So keep empowering them, They will liberate you....one day. Don't fight shy of feeling, You're going to be jolted for a six. And, you will be marooned, you will be heartbroken, So don't clo...

Some people are like old songs that we were under the habit of listening on loop for years, or years ago. At times, we're able to hold onto these people, the others, not. I've found it amusing how some people can manage better than the others to impeccably conceal what's going on in their mind. I wish I could master that considering my expressions have always been supremely transparent. And, at least for me, I've always associated people to certain songs that are always on top of my playlists. I don't know how many of us do that, though; and I deem it very personal to bracket people within a fixed set of octaves and a rigid array of lyrics written by someone else. I'm always curious about how people see others, as well. It's almost like an amateur Austen cataloguing her characters. And I wish it were as simple as characters being plain good or bad. Instead we're in a myriad of emotions we feel even for one person. There's not one relationship you h...

Why, peter out from labelling my opaque coffee so sinister, when it's your breaths that constantly obscure its fidelity to me. Same breaths, your husky breaths, which wrote stories like Braille over my shoulders I still read. And stop secreting behind the book when you clearly are thinking about licking the wetness that has cascaded down my throat and is snuggly leaning off my cleavage - which would still blush of you. And my chest would swell from the slightest prompting of your voice. Stop rummaging hands through your hair! They're tethering my heart and lungs in multitudes of knots inside my chest. I remember the time my hands shuddered from tugging at your hair as they perused through all your apprehensions. Did you just scrutinise me why I think you did? I know. I remember this song, too. It's the one you raged out on my throat to dampen the fire in it, which smouldered with a flame, but no smoke. And your foxy eyes, are always a different colour - darker, whenever y...

And this time there's clamor in the silence, Clamor, people christen as deafening, for they, Perpetually dwindle from hearing the clamor, But that's what average people do, don't they? Because the universe is bereft of your actuality, but you, Know, of the universe's survivals, And the air has eaten the cinnamon from the froth of the tea, Not because it seems frosty now, But the air is itself flushed with the pong, Which prompts you of oblivious reminiscence,  The unprecedented warmth of two sets of pearls against, Freezing cheeks, somehow vanquishing, Because no matter why you think the sunlight's dusty, It barely parades the dance, of the sole wit why they shed,  Is they're indomitable in their way of thought for blemishing you,  When is it, will you understand, How colourful a death can seem? Fall Until next, .... Ak.

The hard muscled shoulders were broad in keeping with his height, but it was more the overall virility of the man was so disturbing. And attractive. And definitely scary.  She tried to concentrate, she really did, but she was acutely aware of a hard male thigh against hers, the 5 o'clock stubble on his chin, which accentuated his brand of aggressive masculinity tenfold, and, not least, the bigness of him.  And she was startled back to reality as the conductor shouted out the next stop. Luck, it seemed, had never befriended her. *** It wasn't love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons - two legitimate, one bastard - and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them. Time, was no more a friend of his....

It poured, that day, Not the kind that puncture, Your skin, slightly, Like the injuries, in the shower, You trace, after you make love. But, the ones that, Fall indolently, nonchalantly, Like a quick kiss, inaudible, Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills, The ones, in funny places, On your head, feel cooler. Wind blew that day, Not the kind that jumble, Your hair, wildly, Like a tree, in autumn, Dancing riotously, before its death. But, the ones that,  Whooshes blindly, drunkenly, Like that beautiful, you saw, On the grass that was rather yellower, Wallowing, laughingly, lazily, In the dress which shone brighter than her smile. He smiled that day, Not the kind that spin, Your head, magically, Like the tresses, under the sun, Of that woman, in the red dress. But, the one that, Was slight, and effortless, Like the way, you breathed, From across that table, When his eyes, from his coffee, Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly, In the light which was c...

She sat by the same window, stirring her coffee. Looking out - thinking - nothingness. The comprehension of the most simplest activities of the human mind stayed well beyond her reach. She came here often to be astray in the smoke from the chimneys that preceded the green lake. Through the cloud of the smoke, she kept her attention out for the water. Water that seemed misty from the chimney smoke. Water that was true. Water, that was imperviously solid. Water, that reflected everything for what it was. She smirked, thinking funnily, how the haze from the steam of her coffee, was just so essential for her to obstruct the distractions the world was ready to serve on a plate, each time that she was here. Alike the steam of her coffee blanketed her when she rendered herself most vulnerable, the smoke of the chimneys, never let anyone see the true face of the water. She often thought to herself, how unfair for the water to be abandoned out there naked. Oh, how she could understand the sha...

"Revelling in the resonance of gushing wind through his ears, he stood at the city's brow, yet again, second time in a decade. As the effusion gradually numbed his mind, his ear still hammered from the noises of yesterday, "Magic, is only your imagination. But what you choose to do with that imagination is up to you." He sometimes wished his imagination had a lot more power than he could muster out of it. Uncoiling his brains, sorting each memory into their worthy cabinets, he plucked his favourite one which had grown completely ripe, protected in the heat of his helixes. His sister smiling at him as she lit the very first candles of the refugee camp. He remembered her being very, very positive. Sometimes he felt that the light in her eyes provided for the hope missing in the people. Leading him to believe in the whites, she taught him the appreciation of the obscurity, as well.  He opened his eyes, holding in his hand the power of his imagination, looking to...