Halcyon

how the river learnt silence

people used to ask me,
how do you manage to have
so many tears in your eyes?
one wrong moment,
and oh, there we see the rivulet,
abounding from the dam.

but isn't it just so sad,
that there is a rivulet
being held so fiercely,
and that wrong moment
breaks the dam?
do you see the irony here?
i don't think you do,
because if you did,
you wouldn't have asked me
that question.

but that was many moons ago.
i've learnt to control
the brine within my shattered orifices.
it just abounds in my eyes,
but remains imprisoned there
unable to settle back,
unable to flow down
just there,
blurring my vision,
scarring my thoughts,
stripping my soul,
and shattering my heart.

because, be happy, dear,
the rain cries for me now.
you claimed that i always burnt
the room down to be seen,
but i now light a candle
and lie that it is healing.
my storms still happen,
just without thunder.
the clouds form quietly,
they don't announce themselves.
i let the drizzle fall inside my bones.
i keep weather reports for my soul.
i used to match the rain's rhythm, sob for sob
now it pours alone.
i've grown too quiet for thunder.
my life has grown asunder.

my mirror does the crying now;
i just provide the face.
the mirror fogs up before my eyes do,
and reflections weep where i can't.
i see the sadness blink back,
but it stays still like ice.
even my reflection
doesn't lose its composure,
unless i am its only witness.

there was once upon a time
i begged the moon to listen to my sobs.
now we sit together—unspoken, and lost
paying the heavy cost.
the moon and i exchange quiet disappointments;
we cannot let the stars see,
else they'll complain to the sky
that we are attention-seeking brats.
we paint a convincing portrait,
and convince them that
i am just another selenophile.

my tears learnt how to stay home,
and come out only when i am alone.
my grief has learnt table manners
it weeps in corners.
the same people don't notice anymore,
but they still comment,
when they suddenly decide
to be the old brooms,
dusting forgotten corners.
my sobs learnt to plaster themselves
to my throat;
they cannot leave the boat.
my tears learnt to cling
only in closed lashes.

"oh, you cry a river," they taunted.
once, i surely did
but now it's a stream under ice.
i bite my lip, my heart still bleeds,
but i keep the oceans in mason jars.
my upper lip remains stiff
as my pain dances on the edge of a cliff.
it could take me down anytime
but it's easier
than to face the taunts.
"dry your eyes!" they muttered, with an eye roll.
but i don't have to anymore.
they've discovered how to stay dry on their own.

"oh, that girl
always wears her heart on her sleeve."
don't worry, dear.
now mine's folded,
stitched inside.
you couldn't reach it,
even if you tried
because you'd be burnt up
by all the acrid pain that envelops it.

my cheeks are dry,
but the pillows remain damp.
my grip on the ink pen is firm,
but blotches adorn my diary.
i'll be honest
my diary has seen more tears
than people ever have,
and my pillow has seen more tears
than my diary ever could.

my grief has good posture now.
i wear composure like fine silk
soft, and suffocating.
but as you always wanted,
i now cry without soundtracks
or witnesses.
my pillow knows my secrets,
not my face.

because when everyone disappears
deep into the inky, raven night
when no one sees, or knows
they creep out slowly,
like the first descents escaping
the dam's iron-clad hold,
and flow down my quivering cheeks
with an unending, unstopping grace.

and when the night clears,
and the moon bids me a sad goodbye,
the dam mends itself again.
the reserve is exhausted.
and all i need is,
as you said in the beginning
one wrong moment
to start it all over again.