ellyondesu

[ellyondesu]

White Marble Floor Room

I lay down with him, On a cold Tuesday morning, The breakfast table stands beside us, Our skin hugs the naked floor, Where the cold dare not reach us.

Half our food is white, And sits unapologetically untouched on the tabletop, While half rests in our hands, Waiting to fulfill our starvation- an opulent ritual of ours, And here, the rotten waste is a thing of non-existence.

And when one of us begins to talk, The other replies in a tone unknown to God, And a melody forms between us, That even the sunlight is unable to burn, Then how shall a whisper even try to escape?

When we look through the red stained windows, Of the muddled room, A web of eternal tales threads itself, Composed of our memories and fantasies, It begins playing like a 90's movie, Where-

We begin humbly at birth and grow old, Little grumpy teenagers too new for this unfair world, Then young adults who don’t know what they shall pursue, Middle aged people wondering how to catch up, All in a room meant for no remorse, Then, finally at death, how can any sorrow fool us?

To read and touch subjects of love, To feel immortality and isolation in a millisecond, To be influenced by nothing but everything all at once, To find comfort in merely the continuity of it all, In the uncontrollable nature of life;

We lay together, on the white marble with the black spots, Our food half eaten, and our thoughts half-done, Where nothing but us finds us.

[ellyondesu]

Beaches and His love

When I walked on the shore, Of the sea or his love; I saw visions of beauty- So blue and wild, An inimitable sort of thing That you can only find When it's very, very quiet.

The sun set or The passing of the months; The leaving flight or My endearing absence; The uncomfortable walk over the sand or The budding cupid in his town- The same tone, same song, Same lyrics, same monologue.

All in the end, Turned to me And left behind this bellowing scar. And as it calls to them, the waves and his love, They pass among themselves a shallow whisper, A fleeting hush that fades with the tide, Before vanishing—only to return again And remind life, That there are still some things left to ponder about, Still wounds to ache And still some time to think before it ends.

And when I stood on the shore, Of the sea or his love, In my mind… I saw peace so sublime- Yellow and divine, An inimitable sort of thing That you can only find When it's very... very quiet.

So what shall I do? When it turns this cold again, Do I imagine their hearts beat in sync? Do I try to feel them through my eyes, still? Or do I follow the fleeting footprints of those invisible beings? Or visualize their warmth over my polished grave? And do I question again? If yes then to whom?

"Why to spend all these hours, trying to convince the life of its fortune, only to deliver the unfortunate and never come back again?" "Why to let me taste heaven, And then snatch it away, The moment it begins To love me back?"

And then when I loom on the shore, of the sea or his love maybe as a ghost; I feel bewitched by their curse- So red and like Icarus's sun, An inimitable sort of sorrow That lingers only When all else is quiet.

[ellyondesu]

Paints, but not Hearts

With paints, you see, you can choose. Does your grass look pink or blue? Or do you wish for your sky to have a greenish hue? You can make your birds fly, sing, eat, or tear away at a jackal's rotten feet. You can draw the plants walking, dreaming, greeting, or digesting a fully-grown human being. Rules aren't really a thing in the world of paints. Slaves of souls and loose blood-sucking insects; Eyes, captive to one's own mind; Hands at places forbidden to even know; Hoards of frail women alone in the middle of the night; Husbands busy building centrifuges and telescopes; Little children solving the problem of our demise; Houses flooded with cigarette smoke; While forests forget to bathe in sunlight. All is all, but a crime. But that is not really the point. The point is, in paints there is liberty. So is not the case with hearts. Paints, logic, love… the hearts are dull to all. A sad heart sees only sadness. It finds it even in the clenched fists and ambiguous tears of Newborns who have yet to open their eyes. And a happy one digs for flowers from 100 kilometers below the crust To give to a person it has just met. The hearts are affected only by other hearts. In essence, hearts may be the strongest things to exist in this world. They take away our liberty Only to enjoy their delightful swim in the swamp of excruciating emotions. Liberty may not always be joyous but it is always true. That is why you see paintings of mothers having affairs, And believe the world has lost its purpose; But with a heart broken once, It seems impossible to trust again.

[ellyondesu]

Random something I wrote about love

“Do you love me?” He asked with the subtle rage of a man who doubted that somewhere in the bigger picture, it might have been his fault. But I didn’t have to answer that, for a glance of mine that would unintentionally fill itself with the sheer longing for him was enough. Though maybe he realized that the question was way too easy for someone who built inside her nothing but affection for him, so he added more to it. “How much?” 

And this was the question that neither a little gesture of mine, nor my petty glances could answer. Actually not even words would be enough to provide justice to what blossomed in multiple shades within me. So instead of thinking too much, I thought simply. I let out my innermost urge that kept tugging at me every time my eyes wavered away from his face. “Enough to lick your shoes if you told me to right now,” I said, bluntly, because I felt that maybe using a sharp word would’ve ruined the whole reason of why we were standing in the middle of the city and having this conversation in the first place. 

And to my - perhaps unforeseen and veiled - surprise, Ryan took his right foot back and kept his left one nailed to its place, so that the pointed tip of his brown left shoe would stick out. All the while he held on his face the expression of someone who felt betrayed, but also regret, the sort of regret that even he didn’t realize he was feeling. 

Now, I consider myself to be a very practical human being. But when it comes to him, I lose my senses. Somehow, something about doing such a lecherous deed in such a place excited me in a different way; in fact so excited that I found myself smiling and falling to my knees right then and there. I prepared my tongue to feel the smoothness of the shoe, and for it to taste bitter because I knew he recently used a shoe-polish to polish it, and I knew he also used a brush to spread it evenly over the surface that would have touched various other of his shoes. 

And there I was, slowly bending myself, and giving myself to the pure bliss of licking that part of him that went with him wherever he went that day, and collected a little of each one of those places he visited. A part that enclosed in itself the smell of the mud from the countryside, of dust from the city mixed with orange juice that he said fell over him earlier. 

But before I could even act, I felt not the stiff hardness of leather over my lips, but the tender, fleshy skin laid with a particular scent of dark chocolate and a sweet, flourishing taste of cream. What else I felt was two palms cupping my face, but not with the thought of keeping it in place, instead with the utter desire to keep me safe. To keep my skin safe.