after Vrinda.
all my dreams of coming home
involve you. In my head we are dancing
in a way we never really have. we are cooking
in a way we have: choreographies both,
one perfected, one which will be.
Perfect, I mean. I dream of you from before I knew you,
like hearing enough stories can spin the visuals, the sounds, the sensations
of moments, into a living, breathing thing. Obviously,
there is always laughter. There is a photo of you in which
you are eating ice cream. One in which you
break into a grin when I ask you who your best friend is. One where you have a coffee cup on your head. One where I'm hugging you,
the sun descending, surrounding us like a halo,
how appropriate, since everything you touch turns
to light. Or reveals it anyway. Sometimes you say 'wohi' without context. Like within our
words are three layers of red velvet brownie cheesecake: the spoken, the unspoken, the
silent acknowledgement
that you know I know you know what I mean.
About a month ago, I told you I hated how
--despite everything. Despite every thing--
distance makes all our stories retrospective. Yet the year I lived away from you, the song
I heard most was Bros, like each moment not spent with you,
did not mean it was not lived with you. You are
in everything I do. All my poems to you
exist without imagery, heavy with the language,
cocooned in inside messages. Leonardo
da Vinci wrote in code to keep his greatest inventions
secret. Is our friendship our
greatest invention? At some point that boy I don't like
said I was wrong, you don't say perfect things in small ways, you find perfect ways
in small things. So here you are in my head,
arm-deep in soil, setting down little seeds,
a watering can by your side, the kernels
bursting into flowers by mere touch. Like there is a secret
transaction you have made with the devil:
not only will you sprout life in all you touch,
you will turn her golden
too. Who else will you give all the flowers to?
When I cannot sleep, I think of that evening in Delhi, when it rained and turned
the sky golden. When we went to eat ice cream
that was too cold, but also too blue. When we found puppies, soft and muddy
and whole. I think of how when we finally
had to say goodbye, we turned and kept waving until
we could no longer see each other, the three of us. I think of how the watchmen knew our little ritual
of spending hours at the gates, delaying leaving: waving, waving, waving, when we had to
finally go. I think of how Sanna would walk to the metro, all for a few extra
minutes with you. I think of all the wrong turns we took in the corridors,
following each other with blind faith, nevermind the wrong place. I think of
all the extra parcels of time we created
for when we would no longer have it.
The days are interchangeable now. But then
time has always stretched, pulled and lost meaning
long before this:
maybe this, our friendship,
has always been timeless.
involve you. In my head we are dancing
in a way we never really have. we are cooking
in a way we have: choreographies both,
one perfected, one which will be.
Perfect, I mean. I dream of you from before I knew you,
like hearing enough stories can spin the visuals, the sounds, the sensations
of moments, into a living, breathing thing. Obviously,
there is always laughter. There is a photo of you in which
you are eating ice cream. One in which you
break into a grin when I ask you who your best friend is. One where you have a coffee cup on your head. One where I'm hugging you,
the sun descending, surrounding us like a halo,
how appropriate, since everything you touch turns
to light. Or reveals it anyway. Sometimes you say 'wohi' without context. Like within our
words are three layers of red velvet brownie cheesecake: the spoken, the unspoken, the
silent acknowledgement
that you know I know you know what I mean.
About a month ago, I told you I hated how
--despite everything. Despite every thing--
distance makes all our stories retrospective. Yet the year I lived away from you, the song
I heard most was Bros, like each moment not spent with you,
did not mean it was not lived with you. You are
in everything I do. All my poems to you
exist without imagery, heavy with the language,
cocooned in inside messages. Leonardo
da Vinci wrote in code to keep his greatest inventions
secret. Is our friendship our
greatest invention? At some point that boy I don't like
said I was wrong, you don't say perfect things in small ways, you find perfect ways
in small things. So here you are in my head,
arm-deep in soil, setting down little seeds,
a watering can by your side, the kernels
bursting into flowers by mere touch. Like there is a secret
transaction you have made with the devil:
not only will you sprout life in all you touch,
you will turn her golden
too. Who else will you give all the flowers to?
When I cannot sleep, I think of that evening in Delhi, when it rained and turned
the sky golden. When we went to eat ice cream
that was too cold, but also too blue. When we found puppies, soft and muddy
and whole. I think of how when we finally
had to say goodbye, we turned and kept waving until
we could no longer see each other, the three of us. I think of how the watchmen knew our little ritual
of spending hours at the gates, delaying leaving: waving, waving, waving, when we had to
finally go. I think of how Sanna would walk to the metro, all for a few extra
minutes with you. I think of all the wrong turns we took in the corridors,
following each other with blind faith, nevermind the wrong place. I think of
all the extra parcels of time we created
for when we would no longer have it.
The days are interchangeable now. But then
time has always stretched, pulled and lost meaning
long before this:
maybe this, our friendship,
has always been timeless.
