Wither

 I shore up no stories

To share when I see you

Why, why bother

You have burdens of your own

And no time

Or the inclinations

To listen to mine

I am determined to be content 

With the merely banal

Did you sleep well?

Is the weather too cold for you?

I say nothing

When you disappear

Into worlds of your own

Just at the moment

When I wish

For a kind word

Or a warm touch

Why bother

When you obviously

Do not want

What I want

Do not need

What I need

And my desires

Are simply a burden for you

And the burden

Is only going to make our evening

More and more cumbersome

I am merely silent

Because to say anything

Would be an explosion

 

I make no protest

As you ride roughshod

Over my carefully laid plans

Doing exactly what

I don't want to do

What is the point of protest

When I am going to lose, anyways?

I will do nothing

But display my own 

Status as a loser

But making the protest

So I let you 

Pretend to ask my opinion

And then go ahead 

And do 

Exactly what you want

But I still give you

All the courtesies

That are your due

And this is how

The soul withers

Like Bartika says,

Rukho banayekai chhu

Dherai dherai saal lagai

 

And now, there are two questions

If I am to share my soul

With nobody

Where will I express

Where will I be myself

Where will I let down my roots

Rest and replenish

Receive and be nourished?

Nowhere, I guess

 

If there is no space

For my wishes to be fulfilled

Where, then, will I be happy?

Nowhere, I guess

 

And what will I do with

All my stories?

All my wishes?

All my desires? 

I can store them up

Waiting for the right moment

Or, knowing that the right moment

Doesn't exist

I can pretend 

They don't exist

 

And yes, this is how

The soul withers

Becomes so thirsty

That even one drop

Of pure soul

Will be enough

To inebriate

Roots

 I want to set down my roots

Somewhere

In some place

In some person

I want

To dig deep

Take in the rich, 

loamy

nutrients

Feed and be fed

Nourish and be nourished

I want a space

To go deep within

Where I can escape

The cacophony of the world

To sleep, to lie

To hibernate, 

To gather strength

To contemplate

To muse

To be silent, and yet be at peace

 

Yes, I want to set down my roots

And you offer me

A flowerpot

A moment of stillness

I need not rush to finish the game

Because i accomplish nothing

By finishing

So all the strategies

That help me do everything fast

Are useless

If I go faster

I only end the game faster

Which I don't want to

So now I must learn

To relax

Just to be

To let the moment

Go on and on

To let the game linger

Lengthen

To take a deep breath

And stop thinking about

When it will end

Language

Maybe

It's too difficult

To write in your own language

Because then the feelings

Would be too stark

To confront

In other languages

You can hide

Behind wordplay 

Transcending

A constant desire

For the conversation

To move beyond

The entirely banal

And into the

Emotional

Or spiritual

Or best

Into what is

Impossible to

Put into words

The measure of a marriage

I could tell you

How long they have been married

What each of them do

Who earns how much

And who they live with

And where

And that would tell you nothing

About the marriage

The marriage is measured

Not in such facts

But in moments,

In relationships

The relationship between

The number of times

The baby gets up at night

And the depth of redness

In the eyes the following morning 

(Yes it matters, Whose eye it is)

The number of yawns a partner takes

And the number of extra naps they get

The favorite returned with a number of

Unnecessary caresses

And the brightness of

The twinkle in the eyes 

In return

The number of coffee cups

Or teas or waters

That come in twos

Compared to the ones

That come in ones

And the hours spent

Stirring and stewing

The minutiae of life

That would bore

Anyone who is not them

To death 

Yes, these and more,

Are the measures of a marriage

And parenting

That are

Impossible to measure

By any means

(Inspired by, obviously,

Invisible cities)

Unhappy

In prisons

Of our own making