A door ajar.

In this modern world, the doors are kept closed and the letters are kept sealed. The thick adhesive stamping its authority over the ever fleeting contents inside. The doors hear the laughter, cries and those occasional whispers. But through that plastic window on the envelope, the name just stares at the darkness of the mailbox it was indifferently delivered. The modern world, a dissonant ocean and words very few and far. A paper envelope, passionless and devoid of the ink.

From the mountains. 

The oceans sighed and heaved and the heart felt like an anchor. But the letter remained yet unopened and the door even more tightly shut. It was never love, it was never even slightly yellow. The white of the paper missed the warm hue of the ink. Waiting for the rain, he ran on the top of the mountain and ran out of breath but all he saw on the icy rooftops was just insipid white. A call he wanted to make while his heart beat even faster. 

Betwixt red and green.

Crossing the roads with the fast cars approaching and feet willing to jump on the white and black of the zebra crossing. A hopscotch made in the tactile transmission of energy. Eyes looked around but all they could see were people looking slightly lost and slightly amazed. The red might become green but what of the waxy resinous world in between? 

Lost in translation? 

Those yellow, uncut and unbiased eyes looked around as the world ambled in its rhetoric. Every step taken, a slight nudge to the left and a slight shift to the right. Her hips colliding with the scaffolding on the sidewalk while her eyes dreaming of the flowers back home. Her door barricaded by those little infantrymen of enamel was slightly ajar. Every once in a while, a dog passed near her leg and she seemed happy. Her smile, a soup for the perfect winter and those lost steps of hers, a mystery. 

Stumbled into flowers.

Head first or heart first? Put my hands in the pocket and ran as far as I could but my body didn’t support me. The field was open and vast but it wasn’t that green. The grass, short but uncut seemed softer than usual. The warm breeze of words whirled around me but whenever I looked up I saw grey clouds. Soft and cottony they were, crimson was what I needed on them. Head strong, I ran like a handicapped man with no hands just to trip over a soft stem. Face in those soft stratagems, her fragrance all around me, my heart had fell first.

A warm fuzzy feeling. 

Someone call the doctor and someone call the ambulance while my heart recalibrates. The beautiful yet undisguised figure taking those midnight swims in the river while I spent hours on the riverbank. Her eyes were extra terrestrial, they had lips to them and her lips were heavenly. Ether flowed from between her lips while her eyes spoke words unsaid. The sun rose on this dark midnight while my head was full of cacophony of her trickling sounds. 

كهرباء

What’s the fastest mode of communication? A pulse of light but that is too fast and with no gravitas. Her skin, an efficient conductor of energy glowed as she soaked up the morning sun. Her skin, freckled with redness all over was just waiting to blossom into spring but she needed water. A ravenous creature of fluids, she guzzled on fluids as if the Amazon within her had found the sea. Her thoughts snapped a light speed and all she did was look at herself in the mirror. A grin, a silly smile and a deviant laugh and off she goes. Buoyant with the new day, the tiny bubbles in her lifted up as she worked on serving those tables. She snatched my attention.

Is it always this easy?

Closed my eyes and I could feel my heart burning. But burning it was like a candle and not a cigarette. Her warm embrace around me and I felt it was too easy. The incredible curvature of her body and the softness of her eyes made the lines on my face erase away. She stood up and lighted the incense while the remainder of me missed her. The slightest separation felt Doppler effect inducing and my heartache wasn’t ache anymore. The lady in the picture wasn’t in backdrop anymore. Unlike MS Word, the formatting seemed much simpler here and much healthier. 

Drifting away I go.

She looks at the moon. The moon calms her down and she feels a little less restless. A little more cared about. She goes back to her drawing board and makes coloured balloons with her paintbrush. The balloons rising up against the light blue sky and the houses beneath. Does she care? No. Does she know her emotions are sailing away? No. Away her thoughts go, away I go. Far, far away she sails. Above the little cows and horses running on the green pastures, above the balletic sea turtle in the deep, somber ocean and above the towers of money and fame. She sails far away to a keen city which nobody’s ever visited before. 

A hero’s tale. 

Paddling through the dark, muddy waters of the Atchafalaya, she stood up on her strong legs.  Looking up ahead like a tenured sailor, she gave an air of a majestic, war hardened captain. But little did anyone know that there were ripples in those waters. A poor, injured bee had faced an accident in the water, maybe an unintentional swat of the oar or just the extra weight of his little wings due to the wetness around. A heroic rescue at task and the world watched. Balancing her paddle board, she managed to rescue the bee before the gators had another one of the evening nondescript refreshment. But there was a certain power in her I didn’t know. 

Ripples in the lake. 

Every colour there ever was, every colour that the leaves turned into with every passing second, she painted the world with her little soft fingers. The pink on her face matched the yellow in her eyes somehow and it wasn’t a contradiction when she said she was sad. Thoughts flowed inside her like those small waves in an enclosed water reservoir. She would sit on the ground with little critters crawling on her skin but she wasn’t afraid of the sun. These little letters inside her were opening up. I looked ahead at the never ending horizon which was finely separated by the lake. She came closer to me and gave me a stone to throw in the lake. All she ever wanted me to do was make some waves and laugh. 

Mood’s just fine. 

As the flickering flame of nocturnal energy died, she rose from the wrinkled bed sheet of her. Under those soft arms and bespectacled skin, lay those minute perturbations of the night. Eyes weren’t yet ready to charm the day but her arms straightened up and all she thought of the cobwebs of clouds passing above her. Her voice, big enough to illuminate a million galaxies while her embrace small enough to fit in my arms. Rarity in this modern world, a caregiver she was and she had to get up to mount the duties on her strong back. Run away my friend, my heart said but she loved people so intensely and immensely. Her softness was a facade in such situations whereas her strength was a mountain immeasurable. 

Boring white? 

No matter how hard or how often you brush your teeth, the whites will always diminish. The shine you yearn for isn’t the white you want. The walls were white and the paper inside the envelope was white. Flat, unsaid and unheard, those whites scared me at times. Devoid of colour, those palms look lifeless but then why did I ever want that? A slight tinge or impurity was needed. But was I right or was the world even fair in saying that as impurity? The yellow tinge, the resinous feeling inside us all. Sharp and lethal we all are and yet we look for the yellow during the fall season. The leaves hue and descend while we capture those memories with our eyes. A slight wear on those boring white letters, a gentle erosion of obstinacy and a lovely cavort to keep the door ajar. 

Let the rays come in slowly and let there be some amber. 

She peeped in the room from the door which was left ajar, 

Her eyes silly and intense, knew my head was heavy with thoughts,

From the mountains. 

Looking at her feet and the faux pax she had done, 

Yellow was missing betwixt her red and green socks, wellspun. 

Faces she made at me, her lips full of colour and elation,

I wasn’t scared of being lost in translation. 

She came closer to side of the bed, a moment of ours,

Pulled her closer and stumbled into flowers. 

Blood rushing ever so gently, love was its ceiling,

How can I describe this warm fuzzy feeling?

Twisting and turning over, she was skeptical of her eccentricity,

But who can ever stop this powerful electricity? 

At times our breaths paused, made us feel wheezy, 

And yet she knew it was always so easy.

Her fingers, short and soft were like dough,

When her hands painted, drifting away I go. 

Her mind isn’t a cruise ship but a wind blown sail,

The way she commandeers, it’s a hero’s tale. 

Still afraid of a slip up and a heartache,

Yet threw a stone creating ripples in the lake. 

The all important question is- is she mine? 

Maybe yes, but the mood’s just fine.

The room too dull, needed a little yellow light,

Golden her form, Amber, the not so boring white.