I’m in pain perpetual.
There is no balm and no kind words
And no one has a clue.
Where is the thinker?
Where is the thought?
I’m just a memory of everyone.
The thinker is the thought;
Nothing that I know or seek,
Is ever going to change that.
Best of luck, he said.
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What is, is and I don’t know swimming.
The sheer act of limb flailing is making me drown.
I need to know the water, first.
I want to float blissfully.
I want all the answers.
Why? He asks.
When you drop a drop,
It is like any other drop
That you’ve been dropping
All this time.
We are in the business of drops; The sheer variety.
Drop it, he said.
Arun says my signal to noise ratio
Is disconcertingly low.
And that makes me slow.
I live in interesting times.
Know how an end is just a punctuation, a hook
To keep scores in history books.
And see how no one is going to change the world.
The world changes itself, on its own, because I do.
It’s shaking; see?
The dance of fingers with yours,
Is the sum total of the kisses we missed,
The stolen glances we found in the night,
Are the remnants of the confusing mist,
That are components of what we call love.
I’d like to know
Why you won’t look at me,
At least, even if, with a scoff?
It’s sinister when
Of all the lights in the room,
Only mine are off.