Lacing my shoes

I wished
The light night breeze would carry,
Softly swaddled,
The scent of your hair
Through the thickness of the air.
I wished
The words you dropt,
Casually strewn,
Would turn the black asphalt
Into a clear starry sky.
I wished
The air was as liquid,
And feather-light,
That it may blow off
My thoughts, hopes and memories.
But my shoelaces
Are entangled,
And I trip and fall
And wake up bruised.
The air was thicker
Than the blood on my arm,
As it spoke to me,
A voice deafeningly calm -
Ain't it better that you walk alone?
It better 'cause
The air ain't thicker
When you wont take away my breath.
The wind blows softer
Not ODing on crystal meth.
At least
Though i trip on my laces,
I dont fall over the words
You left on the ground...

Dust

I am asthmatic. At least on paper. I never really get a bout of wheezing unless i get caught in a dusty environment. They say i am allergic to dust. I am fascinated by dust. Dusty hard-bound red books in tall library shelves. Dusty windowpanes where you can behind streaks of light when you run your fingers over them. Dusty fans which look like pinwheels as they spin above you as you stare aimlessly. Those shiny particles of dust that look like floating honeydew in blocks of sunlight that stream through the leaves.

Dust. I hate dust too. It is so static. I denotes stagnancy. Oblivion is difficult, but dust pisses me off. 'Cause you remain as a relic begging to be remembered, not yet lost, refusing to get lost in time. I hate blowing the dust off every time. Though i like seeing the dust play in light again.

And at times, the dust gets to me. I suffocate. The air grows thicker and my lungs go so small it can hardly go smaller to push the air out. The air stagnates within my body. Sediments dust. I cough, but it is an exertion. I try to breathe, but why is the air so fucking heavy?!!

I am stifled. Straitjacketed. The room is big. The windows open. Words float around like those shimmering particles of dust. Golden specks of happiness. I am disgusted. The air suffocates me. Why are they stealing the air i breathe? Or is it that the air is too thick with words when i dont want to speak any? The windows are open. I suffocate.

I hold a kerchief to my nose. To keep away the dust. And the stench. I walk out graciously.

Ctrl. Alt. Shift. Escape. Delete.

The Doorstop

The room had to breathe.

Open door.

Enter the wind,

And the sun, and

the sweet scent of flowers in bloom

and alluring sounds of melancholy.

The bedspreads are awry,

Crumbled ,

Slept on

and forgotten.

Ashtray on the corner-table.

Cigarettes

burnt to the butt,

Matter, fire, smoke, ash, strewn

peppering the table.

Careless taps of the finger.

Whispering wind

Says secrets

Seduces the ash,

Makes it dance around in whirls.

Ballroom of fraility.

The wind stops.

Ash collapses.

End of life.

The curtains flutter

in the wind now.

Billowing,

as the wind belches.

And the door trembles.

The room breathes.

The ash floats,

Stay suspended,

Double somersault,

And paraglides down

onto the unkempt linen.

The doorstop keeps the door open.

Limiting friction.

Full-stop.