Seeking, Yearning, Reaching Hands

coco mellors, cleopatra and frankenstein.

haiku #15, tathev simonyan

When they hit you with “ No one can replace you ”

but Adeem Hashmi already said the truth “ Ek khilauna toot jaega .. nayaa mil jaega , mein nahi toh koi tujh ko dusra mil jaega ”

I bagged the most hottest and the most romantic dude from Tumblr (it’s a sign for you girls too)

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground

Old room, old images; 2023 was 2 years ago. Dangerous how the time flies by.

Hans, The Mermaid's Son, from Andrew Lang's The Pink Fairy Book by Henry Justice Ford (1897)

I gave you a love so vast it could have swallowed cities whole. I built galaxies in my chest just to make room for you, carved out pieces of my soul and called them home so you would never feel alone. I was there and offering, but you… you only ever loved the echo of me, the shadow I cast in your mind, not the woman who bled herself dry to be enough. You didn’t love me. You loved the idea of being loved by someone like me. And that was the slow undoing.

You were never really there, not when I shattered quietly in rooms we shared, not when I fell asleep hoping you would see me again, not just look at me. I held up the heavens for us while you watched, arms folded, eyes elsewhere. And still, I stayed. Still, I gave. Foolish, maybe. Devoted, definitely.

Now, that it’s all gone. I have crossed oceans of pain to reach a shore where your name doesn’t burn on my skin anymore. I am somewhere better, freer, lighter. And just when I have stitched myself together with gold thread and midnight prayers, you come back.

You come back with a whisper of apology, a handful of words you never had the courage to speak when I was drowning right in front of you. Why now? Why always after?

It is the cruel theater of time, isn’t it? The final act where ghosts knock at your door once you have already exorcised them. People see your worth only in absence, crave your presence only when it is no longer a gift they are entitled to. Love should never be a posthumous award.

And yet, here I am, haunted not by you, but by the echo of who I was when I loved you. And that is the deepest ache of all.

(Darjeeling’22)

“She falls, not like rain, nor like the weeping of skies, But in pirouettes; each flake… A whispered secret spun from the breath of stars.

How happy she looks, gilded in sunlight, blushing at the glances of children, stretching herself across fields… Like she’s always belonged.

Yet in her mirror, she sees only glass.

Not the frost laced wonder, not the shimmer in her descent,

But an absence; a definite pale ache…”