It isn't me/Is this you?

It was a long time back

I envisaged my dad’s hair growing white like some other wrinkled men

And worried how I could kiss his black mustache so audaciously any longer

And told him never to let his hair grow grey/white.

There was a smile-

Then I was told that I am too small for such a melancholy

Such a thought

And that I would laugh at it

When I would be no more SMALL- for melancholies.

You own something terrible-

An irksomely terrible tool

Of detecting my -f r a g m e n t e d- self-

It’s as if a part of me would buzz off

From the middle of something

And you would be there at the other side

Hearing me gasping, sweating, and gulping in my unhealed sighs.

I think neither you fear/contempt it- this fragmentation-

Nor you felt it as an enigma.

There was only a leisurely slowness and softness

Sans wonder, sans angst.

But you have always tried to catch my eye

Into the black lush sympathetic eye of yours

Tenderly signifying

That I am starting to be “divided”.

There is grace in it,

A glary wise grace of necessity, appropriateness and inevitability.

A grace just like when you smiled

At my small melancholy over the possibility of a white mustache.

I long to be too small for having melancholies

Too naïve for this conscious fragmentations

So that I can lean on to you

Or cling on to your neck

Nagging you to heed my shouts of premonitions

Anticipations

Frustrations

Shouts out of my subjectivity-which splits and wavers and shifts and pounds itself.

Shouts of my eerie vexations floating on my head.

So that there will be glassy emotions

Unmasked conspicuous brazen deformities

Unmodified words and unabashed guilt.

I long to cling on to you

So that I can pick up the left pieces of me here and there and drag them into

-ONE-

So that I won’t search for my self

And say that “this isn’t me!”

And so that you won’t ask me someday

“Is this you?”