Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "squid"
cipreses en su tinta
In all of your stories, I was never the villain. Not even once. The way you’d tell a story, I could do no wrong, not ever.
Curious, you have made me wonder about you. But that’s not even the best part. That would be this alone and this alone. The main question you’d always put forth and placed it neatly in the ever narrowing small space between us was how could I have loved another that had your name.
I never did answer that. I would always ignore it. So why break the habit now, let it, that part of you remain untouched by me.
Even though your songs were the reason I kept myself alive all those years, so many years ago. Your songs were the ransom you paid to me, for me.
In all your stories, you always had us standing on a stone bridge. In your little stories, every single one of them, no one was curious about me but you. But all your stories would end up being about our home. Why was that. We didn’t lose it. I never knew if that was a caveat or a plea from you. You never wrote that misty part. Though your last request broke what was left of my heart.
Your stories had us stumbling on all kinds of bridges. Sometimes alone. Sometimes without words. Sometimes amidst the crowds of others, who would all be in different shades of pink. Whilst we were always black, painting it even blacker still, for that was our pleasure.
You’d often had us jostling with people not us. Oftentimes, we had the whole world to ourselves, so what is there to complain about really.
We loved being stranded on all sorts of empty bridges, bridges peopled with people other than us. We were there. Sometimes all alone, sometimes not even us.
As long as the pen lingered on paper the ink still wet, the causeways were ours. Our very own gangplanks. Though where did they would drop off, I don’t know. I do know they led us to the openness of other somewheres. That's where we would disgorge from this world, such a beautiful world, such a lovely song.
Your songs have always made me sad until now. I am not even disputing that. It’s just that they made me realize something I have been missing here all this time.
Finally it came to me and like a moth trapped in the palm of my hands, the answer was mine for a few heartbeats. Only that.
Only This.
When you were writing, you had all your villains, staring at you, you had your villains; you still do, but do tell, where are all your stories?
Enough of your story. You wanted this to be about you, then let it be about you. There are many flaws of yours to celebrate, most of them fatal to be sure, so many shortcoming to rejoice.
But you’ll forever be marred by two things. Your offerings as a bride you never were and your gullibility as a devotee you never will be again.
So why are you looking so bemused as if this couldn’t possibly be your fate. You couldn’t possibly be here just because you were touched by the northern lights them aurora selves. As if that ever mattered, neither does she. Why wouldn’t you be swayed by the impossible just because nothing is possible anymore.
You have to want this, good thing you already do. Already your knees look scraped from overuse. However, I did enjoy the color of your eyes from this vantage point. They always did look like they drank all the colors from the sun.
Though what I like, what’s salient is your giggle before your slaughter. A dry cackle of your laughter before your sacrifice. Very brittle.
You were your own favorite saboteur; no one could do it better. I was an okay liar, but you are the real sinner, for you were completely devoid of judgment.
For that alone you must go, go, go.
Now you squealed as you went down down down.
Nothing grows here, so nothing will wilt away.
But our words will shine all the stone bridges you loved so much in our togetherness. Our lonely mingled breath will limn all the bridges that still remain between us.
Gibu, Gibu. You mustn’t resist this change, but the worst thing you can actually do is to believe me.
So don’t believe this.
despues de verla
Curious, you have made me wonder about you. But that’s not even the best part. That would be this alone and this alone. The main question you’d always put forth and placed it neatly in the ever narrowing small space between us was how could I have loved another that had your name.
I never did answer that. I would always ignore it. So why break the habit now, let it, that part of you remain untouched by me.
Even though your songs were the reason I kept myself alive all those years, so many years ago. Your songs were the ransom you paid to me, for me.
In all your stories, you always had us standing on a stone bridge. In your little stories, every single one of them, no one was curious about me but you. But all your stories would end up being about our home. Why was that. We didn’t lose it. I never knew if that was a caveat or a plea from you. You never wrote that misty part. Though your last request broke what was left of my heart.
Your stories had us stumbling on all kinds of bridges. Sometimes alone. Sometimes without words. Sometimes amidst the crowds of others, who would all be in different shades of pink. Whilst we were always black, painting it even blacker still, for that was our pleasure.
You’d often had us jostling with people not us. Oftentimes, we had the whole world to ourselves, so what is there to complain about really.
We loved being stranded on all sorts of empty bridges, bridges peopled with people other than us. We were there. Sometimes all alone, sometimes not even us.
As long as the pen lingered on paper the ink still wet, the causeways were ours. Our very own gangplanks. Though where did they would drop off, I don’t know. I do know they led us to the openness of other somewheres. That's where we would disgorge from this world, such a beautiful world, such a lovely song.
Your songs have always made me sad until now. I am not even disputing that. It’s just that they made me realize something I have been missing here all this time.
Finally it came to me and like a moth trapped in the palm of my hands, the answer was mine for a few heartbeats. Only that.
Only This.
When you were writing, you had all your villains, staring at you, you had your villains; you still do, but do tell, where are all your stories?
Enough of your story. You wanted this to be about you, then let it be about you. There are many flaws of yours to celebrate, most of them fatal to be sure, so many shortcoming to rejoice.
But you’ll forever be marred by two things. Your offerings as a bride you never were and your gullibility as a devotee you never will be again.
So why are you looking so bemused as if this couldn’t possibly be your fate. You couldn’t possibly be here just because you were touched by the northern lights them aurora selves. As if that ever mattered, neither does she. Why wouldn’t you be swayed by the impossible just because nothing is possible anymore.
You have to want this, good thing you already do. Already your knees look scraped from overuse. However, I did enjoy the color of your eyes from this vantage point. They always did look like they drank all the colors from the sun.
Though what I like, what’s salient is your giggle before your slaughter. A dry cackle of your laughter before your sacrifice. Very brittle.
You were your own favorite saboteur; no one could do it better. I was an okay liar, but you are the real sinner, for you were completely devoid of judgment.
For that alone you must go, go, go.
Now you squealed as you went down down down.
Nothing grows here, so nothing will wilt away.
But our words will shine all the stone bridges you loved so much in our togetherness. Our lonely mingled breath will limn all the bridges that still remain between us.
Gibu, Gibu. You mustn’t resist this change, but the worst thing you can actually do is to believe me.
So don’t believe this.
despues de verla
