My broken poem talks about endings, but my story ~ of broken ends. ( caption ) You know when you suddenly feel an urge to write some lines down that came in your head and you fear not losing them and after they are out there on the white paper, you feel a relief of not having to bid them goodbye? It's something that happened with me, yesterday. I quickly grabbed a pencil and scribbled the lines on the newspaper lying in front of me. The words came in a wonderful flow, rhyming just right, carrying meaning in just the right way, the way that was enough for me. Almost perfect. But, after the words were out there in the notebook, I realised may be that wasn't the best thing to do, after all. Once they were out of me, I could have the privilege of forgetting them, without having to lose them. Once they had kissed the paper, the mark would persist, even after I name it as a smear. They were no longer a part of me. I could leave them there and come back, only to find them there all along. Still. Suspended. Serene. Smooth. Sure. I realised that is what happens with people. That is how they are loved. That is how we are loved. In the beginning, with desperation. In the middle, just right. In the end, with departure. And, even after the departure, if you find those people still waiting for you when you're back, then they were perfect. More perfect than the almost perfect phrase you used to describe them. They're the ones whom you can trust, not because they did not leave but because they stayed. And that's how, I believed in the broken lines of the poem I wrote on the newspaper yesterday. And that's how, I erased them then. And, am now reciting them ~ with my heart. Without a paper. For, they then made home in my heart ~ in me. ___________________________________________________
