Thoughts to Words

When relationships are bombed, randomly,  a rendition absent in its monologue, smoke stinging you, blood rushing to the head, waterworks gushing down your cheeks, the lid on your mouth is tight and quiet is the contemporary loud. Do you miss finding out reasons? Had you been given space, you still wouldn't talk.  Why would you? Wouldn't you preferably  curl up in a chair larger than life, analyse some old photographs, assent to assumptions? Murmur, "I knew it.", with conviction. Emulate the proud sun crushing itself, leaving yourself in disarray, pulling the walls of the room towards you,  colluding with them  to close in on you  till the delight of the pink sky  misplaces its charm in a closet with no outlets. A goldfinch without a visa  is hitting the windowpane on Christmas Eve,  moving its robust beak, chattering emphatically in a solitary state. 'Tis bitingly cold outside, the glacier inside four walls brings no outsiders into its world....

The soup.  I invited myself to your house because you’d share some with me. I knew it. A sense of the gut, it has seldom been erroneous. A bowl of esoteric wisdom, as empowering as the mountains  beneath the concealed ocean  is on the table. My palate, keen to dictate my movements. The soup tasted differently similar, it was healthier. I got irked. You added an antidote to it. Why was there an antidote in it?  I wanted to extract it out of the soup, I couldn’t. 'Should I drop the bowl?' I hadn't dropped in, to drop out. I drank the soup, all of it. Had I disliked the taste of it? My palate could not finalize a judgement. We had talked about antidotes, you tutored me  and I can make some on my own. I even give it to people in need. I just didn’t want it for myself. Had you mixed a placebo instead, I would not have adored you like I do. The genuineness in your recipe  served me the best. If I settled for anything lesser, my gut would mock me. Somewhere in thi...