THE BURIAL OF PHOENIX

what transpired between her,
and me,
was surely
extraterrestrial -
transcending beyond
the realms
of story-book romances,
and yet somehow retaining
their essential nuances.

as i walk down my yesterdays,
scenes play back before me
much like cinematic flashbacks...

* * *

those walks
through silvery nights
when the moon,
though shining
in its entirety
(was yet, jealous of her radiance)

and those spontaneous halts
when she'd suddenly stretch out
under the star - studded roof,
in gay abandon
quite oblivious
of the dewy wetness beneath,

the wind continuing to play havoc
with her tendrils
(and she, with my senses)
while our murmurings mingled
with those of the stars.

* * *

how i would always be
within easy reach -
for all she had to do
was to beckon me,

in her thoughts
and there i would be
in less than an instant!
(riding on
telepathic waves perhaps?)

my soul
a slave to her needs,
and my body
to mine.

no matter what hour of the day
or night,
i was always there
for her.
(or myself?)

* * *

i distinctly remember that morning
as she stood before the mirror
poised, to stain her forehead
with the marital red…
and in that split moment
as her lashes dropped,

how i had stepped forward
and adorned instead
her image in the mirror!

and the amazement on her face
as her glance shifted
from her reflection,
to her finger
dipped in vermilion
which was yet to move!

the consternation
the confusion
as she struggled to match
my performance
with an impassive expression.

and failing ...

and then the knowing smile,
as her eyes searched
and found me,
as always ...

* * *

her eloquent eyes,
where i spotted
every emotion that i understood,
and some that i didn't -

joy,
anger,
sometimes amazement!
naughty at times,
but never, ever
did i detect, any
sadness...

* * *

how often would she remain
still
absolutely still,
wrapped in deep thought,
unmindful of her environs...

times when even i
ceased to exist,
and the reality
of my fragile existence
would be driven home to me!

could i possibly
survive without her?

was this love?

* * *

overcome though i was
with an overwhelming need
to touch her,
i seemed to be
in awe
of her mere presence,

quite like a child
afraid of overstepping his limits
and getting reprimanded!

* * *

so often would she get me
into situations so unreal
and yet so completely natural,
almost like dreams come true...

and yet
denying me on occasions…

was she really so indifferent to my needs ?


* * *

she was never once without her other companion,
scribbling away in her journal,
furiously
and with a near-vengeance at times,
drawing a map as if,
of her most intimate thoughts
and pictures,
that my infantile comprehension
found difficult to fathom.

* * *

whenever
i tried to hold her,
she slid away quietly
leaving me wondering -
whether my midas touch
was turning
this portrait of romance
into lifeless stone?

my unasked question
was answered
with an eerie
accuracy,

as the pages
of her diary
once fluttered in the wind,

revealing words
that hit me
with all their ferocity:

"yeah, i’m just a paper doll.
i breathe
i exist
and return a wooden stare
every time you attempt
to touch me.

the wetness
having long given way
to a drought..."

the rest of the alphabets blurred
as i struggled
to retain a hold
on my sanity ...

was this, as much a part of her
as the ecstasy
written all over
her face
almost eternally...

but such melancholy?

the poem continued:

"...these once over - flowing ponds
now remain concealed
behind veils of false
bravado,

and facades -
that fool people into believing...
... that i am still alive. "

as the enormity of her words
struck me,
i sat there gathering,
the zillion pieces
that my existence
had just crumbled into...

threatening to drift away
in the storm that loomed large,
suddenly before me..


* * *

had i been living with a myth?
how had i missed the agony
lurking right behind
that seeming contentment?

ah, how well, she had shielded it,
and how successfully!


* * *

while my remains struggled,
to remain together
the soul decimated
like a wisp of smoke
blown away
by the torrential winds ...

* * *

but then
characters,

no matter how
realistic,

remain merely that – characters…

nothing more,
and nothing less...

for isn't that exactly,
and all,

that i was…

nothing more,
and nothing less,

than a mere figment
of her imagination,

a customized hero
designed to satisfy,

all her unfulfilled dreams...

one of those characters
that never really live,
except in the minds
of their creators -
merely putty in their hands,

as i had been
in hers...

the portrait
she had sketched of me,

may have been life-sized -

but there wasn't enough life force in there,
to sustain me…
through these tempestuous revelations,

and as her omnipotent image
retreated,
from my consciousness,

thus too,
i retreated,

into the world,

from where

i had

emerged -

a world,

of her words…