jaadu hai

The sights seem to pass me by somehow.
And only way I can ever see
is by letting go of the looking glass.

You are the maker. You are the mover.
Make.
Move.

words wither with the wind,
and i am done discussing
dreams and desires
at a distance.

i want to see you closer.
simple words will not do.
stroke after stroke, i want to
see you dive into that
very distance.

this conversation about your
aspirations is such a bore.
i’ve heard this before, like
an old husbands’ tale, like
an old wives’ lore.
i want to see drops of sweat
drip from the side of
your face (and other places)
and i want to see you leap
before they hit the floor.

we are beyond action plans
that just stand still.
i want to see something slip.
i want to see something spill.

no use making silly lists,
simple words will not do.
i want to see incantations
that turn your imaginations
into soaring a reality
against your skin.
given the chance
i would step in step
with your dance but
i want to see you spin
further into that
very distance.

i want to see you turn
page after page, i want to
see an unapologetic rage.
i want to see you climb
the mountains of your
thoughts. i want to see you
glide over rock after rock.
i want to see some wild
hunger in your eyes,
i want to see the chase.
i want to see you close
the gap. i want to see
you weave space into space.

no, no; no, no; no no no.
simple words will not do.
i want to see you on the
other side of your dreams.

even at that very distance –
even before those drops hit
the floor – i would
fall in love with you.

i reach my heights on days like these,
i wonder why on days like these.

perhaps fine wine and a dose of cheese?
but those won’t do on days like these.

i could strum a song, if you please,
i lose my voice on days like these.

when was it last i prayed on my knees?
and i do not still on days like these.

the look of joy and eyes that crease,
i miss your smile on days like these.

oh, the solace and ease of winter’s breeze,
my frozen heart softens on days like these.

it might be unfair to say
that all that remains of the past
is memory.

unless you argue that
scars are a type of memory.
that the painting you painted
isn’t simply a painting, it
is also a memory
of you having painted it.

nearly everything then
is memory.

without these memories,
how do we even know
if the past ever happened?

what if every moment
is the start of time
with placed memories?

i am not expecting to
have my cake and eat it, too.

all i want is one slice.
like, even a small slice would do.

i won’t even finish the whole thing,
i’d take at most a bite or two.

i’m really only mostly window shopping,
i am not here to take over your bakery.

leafless trees sway slightly in the wind.
a single car, with the hazard on,
is parked on the shoulder of the highway.
the traffic is light but steady.
a patch of graffiti separates the road from the railroad.
a bird swims – no, it floats rather peacefully – in the water.
i want to ask it if what is good
for the goose is also good for the gander,
but it might be a duck.
a message on the path asks me to think!
a lone runner runs around the gravel track
around the baseball field, her hoodie pulled up.

there lies an entire world between broadview and castle frank.

even in toronto –
among the falling flakes –
i long for toronto.

what happens to the soul
of an apple once it dies?
what happens to the soul
of a tree, the soul of an
ant, the soul of a bee?

what happens to a lego
house once taken apart?
where does the house
go? who can we ask?
who really knows? is it
the bricks that make a
house, or a house that
makes the bricks? is it
our body that makes us
move, or our souls that
make us tick?

how do we make sense
of what we’re told? how
do we make sense of
our very souls?

i remember yesterday
as if it were yesterday.
and the day before that
as if it were the day before yesterday.

but the moment i remember any day
before the day before yesterday
as if it were yesterday,
i forget the day
that was yesterday.

i have been waiting
for quite a while, but
those positive vibes
you said you’d send
never arrived.

those vibes aren’t alive,
and even if they did arrive,
they’d be dead on arrival.
far beyond repair,
far beyond revival.

i think sending vibes is
a feel good thing –
for the sender.
do me a favour then,
put them on some shelf.
keep your vibes to yourself.

maybe next time you
can send me something
useful, like a set
of disposable pens.

the fragrance of jasmine seeped
into my senses, jasmine molecules
through the vapour of this tea.
and it reminded me of the time
we found the tea. i remember it like
it was yesterday. the cool summer breeze
as we walked into kensington. or perhaps
it was scarborough town and a cool
winter breeze. the tea’s available everywhere
now, even walmart carries it.

but this cup, this vapour, this smell.
every cup of this tea will remind me
of you – every sip of it. well, not
every sip. that seems a bit much. but
certainly many sips. and probably not
every cup of tea. let’s be real here.
time will pass and my senses will be
distracted. who knows what they
will remember. who knows what they
will forget.

who knows where a memory may lead.

dear diary,
i wish you would write back sometime.
with love,
adnan.

if i could take away
that glimmer from your
eyes for a moment
and show you your
life again. what moments
would you revise? what
steps would turn their
tide? would you leave
yourself some element of
surprise? some unspoken sign?
some cryptic advice? given
a chance, are we not
all revisionists? odd defective
perfectionists? trying to better
all that matters to
us at the time.
what would you do
if i took away that
glimmer from your eyes?

my eyes survey others to see
whether i’m dressed weather appropriately.

for i never check the weather report,
i always dress for the day before.