The cat walks past, cobwebs in her whiskers
clearing up the cardboard boxes
I thumb through picture books and socks
I listen close and hear laughter,
from a picture of my sister, who I take after
I fold it away, reach past a button-box,
I remember, every outfit, our stilted talks
so little was said, my sister’s sick bed
her hands as cold as mine
The GPS failed
At the summit of the empty trail
I’ve reach the moon; coloured pale
Lies the rest of the vale
The hum of my laptop
Other worlds flicker to life.
On rainy days
your loneliness
stays inside.
Hold on, you said.
If I knew where we were going
I’d lose my way.
Are we just the weight of memories?
I know what you’re trying to say,
The lost possibilities you still see.
And I’ll catch a cold, away
From your jar of hearts
But you already know,
So hold on, hold on,
The weight of fallen memories
Will keep us afloat
Away from Goodbye.
Crimson clouds behind the walls,
Roosting near a crow caws.
Here she weaves her brocade;
The river girl seemed to fade.
Made of gray yarn like the rain
In the lonely room insane.
Ah, there she goes again. Curious little creature. And its’s… 8:30 now. I have a feeling she’ll be gone for a long time.
She’s got something about her. Maybe that’s why I can’t paint the woman. There’s this whiff of destiny- look at that gait- a bit of fear too. Perhaps it’s time I offer a bit of help. How long has it been? Half a century? Maybe more. Back when things were still different. I think I spent months working on my painting. I wonder what a young and virgin eyed version of myself would say if someone told me I was going to paint the same thing every year. Maybe I would be happy, happy about knowing.
Who was that other girl? I think I remember her. The one with silky,yellow curls who pranced around in her apartment when I was young. I can’t remember her name. Years. Years I spent looking out through my window. they say the world changed. All I see is another woman at the window, in shadows where my dreams paint in the blanks. I wonder if I really want to know who she is. But Amelie seems so permanent.
Like the woman in the painting, captured on canvas now and forever. That is of course, only if I manage to paint her. To copy the window, that seems to have her preserved forever. But first my bones of glass will have to carry me far. to understand her I must tell her all I know. Tell her not to make my mistakes. To look through no windows.
Rijul Ballal 