how will she know
how will she ever know
my doubts these thoughts ceaseless heartbeats
hopeless hope
how will I tell
how will I ever tell her
what nights do how days are how afternoons linger
sadness
how can I show
how can I ever show her
my fingers these hands the dusk of my skin
longing in my marrow
how will she see
how will she ever see
her name etched endlessly on the white of my bare pages
white of my eyes
how will she know
how will she ever know
what I am actually thinking burning melancholy
a shadow on my skin
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6 comments:
I once was in the bath about a year ago. And the image came to me. Bent over, writing a name on a clean sheet of paper. Then leaning back and folding it. Over and over. And pressing it down inside me. In that bath, I cried. For the pain of regret, loss, guilt, any other melancholy emotion. And I wondered the same thing you just wrote about. How will he ever know?
Breathless rhythm for a breathless poem.
I've been there too.
Maybe that's why I can't comment much, even though I feel some strange urge to do it.
I agree with Atenea, this time I find it diffcult to find words too. this strange music resounding in me over and over again...
That's so deeply haunting. And beautiful.
Thanks everyone for liking this poem, though when one likes a poem, one actually feels kindred with something, be it words or certain nameless feelings. Isn't it however a certain feeling, a state of mind that eviscerates these words? Finally words fail to express the entirety of our supposed states of existence but then we have been there before.
Folded: i agree, he may never know but this lamentation is a self knowing, an awareness of former emotions that haven't actually died out.
Atenea: i have unconsciously or not, borrowed the rhythm from a Cortazar poem. It is called 'To be read in the interrogative'. it is on my blog. Only the words are mine.
Roxana and Madhuri: thanks, as always.
aeth go mazi, aeth wanaan madhir dag
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