all my poems still talk about you

MAGDALENE BRIDE

There’s guilt that I retch onto the floor, and my rotting flesh stains the chapel, seeping into the cracks more than any of my prayers ever could. I gnaw at my own ribs, scraping them to pieces. The priest has remnants of me defiling his mouth, and the stoic eyes gaping at me from the pews—painted the same white as the walls, which have long forsaken me—don’t betray their dignity. Their postures are perfect, their suits well-pressed, and their expressions unyielding. The one awaited does not show up; he has become a prayer. Instead, he turns the bend and smiles—a smile that hints at quiet encouragement.

My body hits the floor, my knees bleeding—applauses are what reverberate. The space reeks of jasmine and myrrh, and the cold bite of metal from the cross stings my skin. The communion wafers lie long forgotten, and the sacramental wine dulls with the passage of time.I witness the priest standing a few feet away, his hands trembling with hunger."Young girls have corruption in their minds," he says. The horror of Jesus, hanging limply from the crucifix, his hands bleeding where they’ve been nailed and his feet rupturing flesh, gapes at me with open eyes full of helplessness and dread. A rag—grey with time, stained with his blood that is infected with rejection—hangs at his pelvis. The wooden framework encasing his heart of impotence and throat of meekness withers and cracks in the sun, but the dews remain cold. The congregation jitters and jeers, repulses and admires, devours and purges—they merely talk.

Perhaps the moon was his accomplice, veiling itself behind the mist, mocking her patience, a conspirator in her longing. She waits—o, she does. The night stretches like dark, kohl-lined eyes, with barely any stars, offering no mercy, no light to trace her beloved's face.

The wind weaves through the foliage, whispering and conversing with the gnarled branches of the trees, appearing dark against the velvety night sky, as if sighing with pity at her quiet grief and yearning. Her hands trembled, and her heart paced; the scent of the roses was too harsh and bitter, offering no comfort. The night air stings, and the earth beneath, which clings to her feet, is cold and unyielding, much like the passage of time that refuses to turn in her favor.

He did not show up to loosen the braids of her dark raven hair, the ones in whose knots a silent prayer was whispered. The white jasmines in her tresses fluttered ever so slightly, veiled beneath the golden fabric, which lifted with the wind, but there was no hand to steady it.

She ached for a glimpse of him, a stolen moment to etch in her memory, sweet nothings to remember by heart, and for those silent vigils when he gazed upon the moon, and she would watch him.

She cast off her bangles, the pearls scattering across the floor like forsaken stars, their glimmer and beauty wasted on a night with no beloved.

The hour had betrayed her, the moon had turned its face, and grief, like the night, stretched infinite, offering neither solace nor an end to the waiting.

Dearest

i've been pacing up and down, wondering how to start my letter, and my room is littered with crumpled papers and ink stains. there is much that remains undone—couplets still left unsaid, movies unwatched, grief still waiting to be felt. the streetlights are cold and yellow, and a rusted lock hangs from the gates of the ground we used to play in. the town feels unfamiliar now that you've left, though it would be wrong to say that—because you're bleeding all over your absence. i still find you in the turning of my book pages, in the familiar curve of the street that leads to your old house, though the flowers in your window have dried, and the fairy lights no longer seem to work.

the mandala art we left unfinished gathers dust in the corner of my shelf where you last placed it 2 years ago, and the blue we painted my walls has started chipping away. i wonder where all the time went—perhaps the worn-down football does the same. the wind still carries the scent of earth and sun-bleached grass, though now it stings. the chalk marks we once drew in the garage have faded, and the footprints of a thousand games in the playground have been smoothed over, soon to be buried beneath brick. i do not know if you intend to come back, but i pray that you won’t—because the prospect of mourning you again is far too terrifying, and i find that i am better off with my waiting.

unfortunately, to my parents’ disapproval, the one thing i truly dream of is having a home. i know i am supposed to dream big and “shatter the glass ceiling," and i do, but really, this is as close to my heart. i don't imagine the number of rooms and how big or small the house is, but i do dream about the sunlight coming through the windows, the quiet summer afternoons in the courtyard, the plants and flowers that are to be grown, along with the groceries to be bought. i dream of a gentle life with my beloved, where there will be no slamming of doors and neither of us will go to sleep with quiet resentment in our hearts that grows every day. i'll be able to hear the laughter of the children playing down the street, reverberating off the walls, and tell them stories—from the undying devotion between two lovers to the ventures of the fellow knight—while drinking tea on which too much money was spent for sugar, which leaves ring marks on the kitchen table. i dream of the books that are to be read, which will adorn every shelf and corner, and the paintings that are to be hung.

My loved ones are always welcome, irrespective of whether they want company, help, or words of kindness during trying times. i dream of the mehfils that are to be held, the ghazals that will be sung, and the shayeris that are to be recited. there will be winter nights spent huddled around the fire with my friends, where the courtyard will witness us dreaming aloud and revisiting old jokes. there'll be new recipes i'll learn, cupcakes i will bake, a favorite song i'll hum, and movies i'll watch. after all, some dreams are not about leaving legacies or achieving success in boardrooms; they do not call for applause, shine under spotlights, or get remembered in the pages of history. some of mine are more fragile, steadier—ones that have the comfort of a voice that calls for dinner, the creak of familiar wooden floors, the smell of fresh bread and candles of jasmine, with the last note of the serenade lingering in the air.