The truth

You can spare me the details-

but I want to know the truth, in its

whole form, without the details, 

I want to imagine the details to suit my grieving-

if you could respect it, that way, just that. 

I am limited in my strength, I am of a

limited disposition- but don't worry

the truth has always been handled by my type.

they tell me that the big green trees 

in our neighbourhood were planted

by you; its comforting to know that

you still  provide me with the air I breathe-

the man who fixes our air-conditioner

thinks otherwise, but you know how I

was never removed from the basic truths of life,

and so I know; and thats why it's important

to know the truth. Perhaps its overrated, 

but what if- you taught  me that 

knowledge liberates, that we are the

happiest when we understand, 

even of our shortcomings? 

Constructive criticism, that's the word you oft used. 

The ocean is a mile away from here, 

one and a half kilometres, that's how

they say it in your country- oceans

apart, but why did it happen now, 

when everyone's headed to beautiful

places, everyone but me- 

my truth will always be different

than yours, that's why I want to know

the truth, the heart of the matter.

Sometimes on a quiet day, 

I can still hear the waves and the gulls, 

sometimes together,

sometimes in  staccato beats 

and think of the days when our bodies lay side by

side, and you blew my sweaty face with insides

of your lung- 

but that was not the truth, not your truth anyway.

Some of me will never be aware of your entire

truth, but that's how it is, so I will keep this in my

heart, knowing that you are gone- my imaginations

will guide me- and I have stopped wishing ugly things

for you; your truth is beauty,  and all the

nice things that I couldn't give you, and all the nice 

feelings that were too short to last

a lifetime- 

another story gone wrong. 

Man without an address

Sometimes I recall the faces of all 

the girls I have loved a decade  ago, 

who refused to love me for who I was; 

Its all fair, a boy without a game, 

yet there's a pain which comes up 

from somewhere deep within, 

murmurs in the heart, as doctors would say-

no one ever weeps for the weak or 

the unwanted, its what we do-

we feel sorry, and sometimes I am

 guilty of being sorry for myself.

It's not about love though, or those special ones- 

them gals of my heart 

(there's plenty of both in this world) 

it's about the agony of trying too hard 

when you are young and believing this is it 

-"the fallacy of sunk costs" , sunk emotions. 

Screw them writers and fancy poets who

 lights up your emotions like gasoline;

what of the fleeting hearts and what of the

 poetry for the ones who got away

The ones who were never meant to be.

such is the story of life- we want what we 

want, and then far away in this country 

where it snows every evening I often hear 

a good old Rolling Stone song in Joey's pub; 

"You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need"

and I repeat these lines in my head,

in crisis and in health.

There's solace in the silent victories of 

being a man without an address, of 

gulping sorrow as if its food-

there's solace in these evenings- 

where I keep my body warm with faulty drinks.

Sometimes I walk into some shady desolate

neighbourhood hoping I will catch a 

stray bullet just to paint the snow in scarlet,

but nothing ever happens on  evenings like 

this, no belligerents, no lovers, not even 

my favorite dogs to protect me from

 the sun, rain and the hail- 

just me and the faces of all

the ones I loved; yes that...

I don't recall the ones who loved me.