we cannot as much as try aestheticise

you are no Plath and i
No Hemingway.

Perhaps there is
No other way
For me to say
This truth and truth alone:

We suck at writing, we suck
At dying,  We suck
At everything there is to suck
But sucking.

Dying
is the final art form,
A culmination of our lives as a poorly written
Art form,

   an art form nonetheless.

You Are With Me In Photograph

For I know no other way of breathing,
Other than this,

Breathe, for example,
As if the chambers of my lungs
Are caving in to the blueness of the night,

As I see through your eyes and I drown
In the vastness of the ocean inside you.

(There are flotsams, and jetsams, and ruins,
That are witnesses to our ruins;

The only thing we could lose now
Perhaps is lost itself.)

For I know no other way of breathing,
Other than this,

Breathe, for example,
As if sighs are my utterance of the unutterable
Silence. Sound waves travel faster in water

Than in absence. There are ghosts escaping from my lips
Every time I look at you, and in the blueness of the night,

As I see through your eyes and I drown
In the vastness of the ocean inside you.

(There are fishes that feed on our ruins,
Tiny and silver and salmon that shine

Still as the moon reflects them; There were
Seven, now eight, still counting.)

In silence I will swim, I will let my body whisper
The words perhaps my words can’t speak.

For I know no other way of breathing,
Other than this,

And I know no other way of speaking, know no other way
Of eating, of sleeping, of thinking, and of living,

Than this, when you’re with this,
When you’re with me, and I with you.

It so happens that I am sick.

And it happens too,
To my lament,
That my sickness has
No cure.

No medication needed, not even
A simple diagnosis.

No walking down
The indifferent hallways
Of half-deserted hospitals —-
Where people stare on walls and see
The abyss of the sea.

   By then, just let me drown.

I am tired, and I am restless
And I feel my body aching
In places where I
Have never known
Existed

For it happens: I am sick.

For I cannot last on days with meds
For then, I would be dead.

This sickness is a part of me.
I can never not
Endure.

To the limbo, I secure.

Pacific

For this is the place
Where I have decided:
That calm is calm
is calm.

In the middle of the eye
Of the storm, brick by brick —

I shall build a fort.

The trade winds dare not drag
From here.
From here, they shall
Protect me.
   (and only then, i’ll be)

After the Storm

We remain silent
After hours of heavy
Heavenly rattling.
With things outside
Settling into place,
We must know this by now:

The fallen leaves and branches
On the street will not
Sweep themselves clean;
Just as how the traces
    Of mud,
like the fingerprints of Earth,
Lingers in the very core
    Of home.

Dear, the Earth is moving,
And as it moves, we must
Make sure it moves
With us.

    (A cleansing after the storm.)

Gillyweed

Father,
there are holes
in the roof
of our kitchen.

From here I could see
the sunlight.

Later in the afternoon,
as it happens every day,
during these mental monsoon months
  of June and July: 

Our house would turn 
into a mini Ocean Park. 

Puddles will form 
on basins and teacups
settled on ground.
Trickling on warm wooden
walls. This house
would be the house
of garden moss
and ferns. 

Father in a matter of days,
if we don’t fix this we will have:

Gills instead of nose.
Fins for arms and legs.
And scales 
in place of skin.

I’m not saying this is bad:
I’m just saying this 
Is not good either.