You dream far too often to live inside me

We have dreamt too often of the
sandy, balmy that evening
Unchained by time or space or thought,
licked by the sun's last
lusting yet inert sperm-shaped rays.
The sun kissed my toes as I awoke,
Awoken by her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'
(She said this as I saw the sun drown into
an imaginary dawn)
I understood. She needed time alone with the
frail sandgrains preaching of long weary journeys.
I think I promised her that I'll make it painfully quick.
'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth
like a tired spurt of paint upon a dusty canvas.
The thick blood-red paint dragged the dust
into an embrace. Like lovers making love for
weeks and weeks upon sand-dunes after sand-dunes.
'You dont have to eat, drink or dream if you
inhale the heady blend of love and death' I said.
I think after a long while of pasting the blue velvet
of the Goan night sky onto the curtains of my parched eyelids.
Those eyelids, which I wore to school, to college, to life.
I wore them everywhere, except my dreams.
The sky was now sweating in a imperfection
that only clouds hold in pregnancy.
'Will you stop your murmur. Will you atleast open your eyes?'
She had stung the moment with nectar, the venom
Fallen prey to the loving refuse of meaning.
While her hair involuntarily brushed my pupil,
I waited till my eyes went the same blood-red
On the canvas. It was precisely that moment when I realized that
It wasn’t any paint from a palette that I spurted
Onto the dusty canvas (I had always wondered how could the
Paint look so much like blood).
It was the second last hour before my second last death.
I too had fallen far too easily to the loving refuse
Of meaning. Time did not matter anymore. I was dying again!
‘Bliss atlast!’ I thought. Yet time, in its heavy, unmovable
Stance rested upon my wrist. It stood between the puckered,
Pierced veins and the irresistibly rusted blade. Yet
I found my way and died my second last death.
Even then, I remembered the journey of her eyes.
A decade in which the incurable innocence of her eyes
Turned into the same listless, soothing indifference
Of eyes, drenched in insomnia and the pregnant sky.

I slowly lifted my head off the pillow and watched
The maternal love of the clouds letting her children fall.
‘They were born to fall’ the cloud whispered to me
As I let one of her sons fall right into my eyes,
Turning them red.
I went right back to my pillow trying to
Paste the blue velvet of the Goan sky
Onto the inner curtains of my eyelids.
I tried wearing my eyelids for the dream
But she refused. She liked to be called ‘eyelids’
For she was night-blind.
…her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'.


'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth.
If only I could pretend my eyelids
Were the canvas. Just like she believed
She was an eyelid or two.

‘You dream far too often to live inside me’