THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

  Your face has started to fade away It's now at some place that makes me blind,  I don't understand how this happens,  Were you so insignificant to me?  Or have you changed a lot from the past?  But I remember every single thing you said,  Every punctuation and apostrophe Every road and bus we took.  I wonder why your face is fading,  When I remember how we cycled through the fields in the summer,  How you read me Neruda,  battling with the breeze that turned the pages constantly.  How can your face fade away, When I remember the sensuality I felt every time your hands rubbed against my skin,  The times we spent under fluorescent lights of your van.  Your face has started to fade away,  Even when I don't forget how time  Flew when we spent weeks Exploring the strange roads in the Countryside.  How is this possible?  When I have a clear picture of  your little ecstasies  surrounding the odd th...

  Taming me is not as easy as you think,  For you cannot contain me in your  Petty accounts of suppression.  If you think of taming me,  Honey, you have to think twice.  I'm not easy as the animals you tame,  Or your subordinates you have at your beck and call.  No, I'm not questioning your taming abilities,  For which you are renowned.  But I'm overconfident about my abilities to overpower you.  The fire and my silk dress made of years of struggle Are great warriors and killers.  They can torture you and your allies,  With the faces and lives of people, you have trampled down,  They retaliate your atrocities through their cries and curses.  My dear, you may not have any idea,  But it is not easy to tame me.  You judge my appearance and make a move with your whip,  But your whip can be crushed and thrown in four directions,  Which grow and produce thorns of insecurities around you.  Even ...

  I overslept on the cosy couch,  Once again,  I bet the bugs recognised me,  The clock ticked on my time,  The wind gossiped with the trees about my secret.  I bet they would talk about my last  resolution,  Not to come here again,  To visit him.  But two bottles of island wine and some sweet talks at the bar Made me come here.  I read his eyes when he looked at me,  There was despair and sleeplessness.  In the air of intoxication and between the dimming lights,  I tried to read his lips,  I sensed the different alphabets  trying to escape the choking In his mouth.  I remember strolling through the city,  Amidst the happy cries of children And honking of vehicles.  At times I tripped and he held me,  Telling 'I got you'.  But he didn't, I tripped again In front of the church,  By the parking lot,  In the sidewalks of the city fair,  Where the horses of the merry-go-ro...

  She promised me she would wait at the other side,  Convinced me they won't touch her,  Because she is one of them.  But on the other side, I cannot find her,  Except for the ring that lies, dipped in soil.  We came all this way, for the ring,  How irrelevant has our love turned out to be for her people?  She said it was the ring she saved for me,  And made it for me, the day she came out,  As eternal love served by the lines on the ring, She has become my eternal anguish.  I search for her everywhere,  Even her people, who think I have bewitched her,  Acts indifferent, the ones who saw her for the last time.  I know you have made her disappear to a realm,  Where I cannot bewitch her.  But I cannot offer you that promise.  I have lost track of time,  She was always the courageous one,  To stand beside me,  And assured me fight in this war together,  But she left my hand,  To fi...

  Your handwriting is a curse on me,  It remains in me and Reminds me of you.  When I think of an A,  Your A appears to say hello,  When I make a sophisticated L,  Your L volunteers.  I try not to take your handwriting  To make my inner thoughts,  But during winter,  It found a place and hibernated in me. The edges of S seem to Prick my conscience like a fishhook.  The fists of B seem to  Punch me in the face.  I'm at war with your handwriting,  And in this war,  I don't have any allies.  But I can tell you,  If you think of the old times,  Where you used your handwriting To write for me,  In the notes you left, with the pancakes, On the fridge,  On the bedside table,  And if you think of how much I adored those little notes,  You can spare me in this war.  But your mammoth love is blinding me,  I find no reasonable weapon to defend the radiance of your handwriting....

  You say you can only offer friendship for my love,  I say l don't want it.  I want love,  love in big forms,  love that fills every atom around me,  Love that challenges every equation.  I thought you are the one,  the one with whom they would define people.  I'm just fine to ask you to return everything,  Everything that I gave as souvenirs of my love,  Which you received as a friend.  Starting from my starings and nights waiting for your responses.  I turned to be someone I was not, for you,  I spent my time, analysing and making hypotheses on you.  So return my brain cells used for that,  the blood that rushed to my veins,  Every time I saw you.  I want my health and thoughts that I wasted for you,  The souvenirs of my love.  I have murdered my love for you,  One fine night,  I have buried the carcass of my love  In the gardens of hopelessly wandering ghosts.  The...

  I wish to go home to cry,  My eyes have started to blur out,  I can't carry the weight of unshed tears,  But I'm far from home.  My feelings overflow like a spring gushing forth from the earth,  It seeks refuge in moonless nights and  dark corners.  The heart has outgrown, it's no longer of fists size,  It has become indifferent to the aches and scratches.  I wish to go home to cry,  But I can't remember where my home is,  It has become a delusion,  I get the blurred images of the blue windows with yellow curtains,  That swayed in gentle winds,  To kiss the books on the table.  Or was it a yellow window with blue curtains?  I'm unable to figure out the exact picture,  I haven't been home since three seasonal cycles, or four or five.  But I wish to go home to cry,  To cut open myself and heal my heart with yellow flowers,  And to sleep with lavenders under the pillow.  But whic...