play, pause, replay

a letter on the saturday table

"There will always be a part of Phoebe that'll

grow on our overgrown balcony garden,

the shared cup of green tea, the midnight

Saturday drives across the streets—every day."

I laughed in disgust the moment I heard

Grayson saying it: Phoebe's ex.

 He made it sound like they've been the

long lost lovers till the end of time,

carving their twisted fairy tales on rust.

Do you remember that blurry night, Grayson?

August 29, 2020. Phoebe's twentieth birthday.

Even though I shouldn't be writing this now, but

Grayson, here's the thing: you don't love

and lose; you love because you know you'll lose.

You said something, I couldn't remember now, to Phoebe 

after you gave her the present, but the only thing I 

remember was how you grabbed ahold of her hair and yanked

her towards you. That's when I realized, Grayson, 

whatever you feel for her, it's definitely not love.

I don't want to talk about what happened after that.

Because well, now you're waffling some shit about

how amazing of a person Phoebe was.

Do you even understand the shit spewing out of your mouth?

(No one does Grayson, not even my mother)

Do you even know that I know exactly what happened to her?

(But I couldn't save her, anyway)

Do you even love her now, Grayson?

(You don't, and you never have—not now, not ever)

There's nothing much to say or write to you, Grayson.

Because I know how it was to be in love with you.

You're like that little street downtown that

dies every day, in the blur of blue-washed moons

and champagne-tinted mouths.

You're like that roadside tea, gone cold and bitter

in the most nonsensical conversations.

But mostly, you're the worst lover that ever dared

to love someone so they can lose themselves.

So when you made our cold, patched mess look

like another silhouette washed in the blue of

the November afterglow—a dying ache of living,

I have let you, Gray. I have let you make me a 

numb mess of tangled shadows and silver deaths,

I have let you draw the mirror image of our last sunset

at the seaside, the colors, washing our skins away.

So I leave the church quietly, oblivious

to anyone but you, and drive back home.

Love tastes less like heartbreak on my skin.

It tastes like revolution, a scorching metaphor

of our decayed cinnamon skins.

Love wasn't you and me, Gray. Love wasn't Phoebe.

Love wasn't the poem I wrote about you last summer.

A different kind of blood burns through the

veins of the poems on the Saturday table,

and suddenly you look so real against 

the azure-painted walls, slicked in blood.

Make it feel holy, love, all of it—all of us.

Let the apricot stain your crooked nails,

swallowing the sun before the ocean.

* * *

A/N: As I sit down to express my gratitude, I find myself overwhelmed by the immense support and kindness you continuously shower upon me. Though I've penned numerous thank-you notes in recent weeks, it seems that no number of expressions could adequately convey the depth of my gratitude for each and every one of you. Without your unwavering support, I could never have come this far. It may sound cliché, but I mean every word of my heartfelt thanks. 

So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for being the incredible readers that you are. Thank you for your kindness, your generosity, and your boundless love. I am endlessly grateful for each and every one of you.

With heartfelt appreciation,

Sreeja.