Invisible Numbers (poem)

Can you count the wind?
I can.
I can count each separate breeze as it brushes through the leaves and trees.
I can also count each ray of sun, the beams igniting one by one.
A mote of dust, a grain of sand
Each separate bit my eyes can land,
and count.

But you.

I can't count you.

The hair you toss over your shoulder,
The calculative stares from eyes that smolder
The smiles that play around your lips,
Your vocal cords that issue quips

It's all the things that i can't count
The things that make you paramount
in my eyes.

My eyes.
My eyes that see, full of stars,
my eyes, that see exactly what you are.

And yet I still can't count you.



__________________________________________________

Butterflies (poem)

Butterflies?

More like killer bees.

My stomach feels the buzz of their wings when I'm with you, but once you're gone, the sting sets in.

You're like a drug, I see the world through different eyes, feel different things, but once the high has worn off, I want more, and I regret it.

___________________________________________________

Short story

This is an excerpt from a short story that I'm writing that I'm stuck on. I thought maybe posting it here would maybe spark some ideas.    

            

           Jeff climbed out on the windowsill, dangling his feet out over the edge. It was raining, brushing gently across his face and getting caught in his eyelashes. This was his favorite place to sit when it rained, because you could be right in the middle of it, feeling like you were a part of it—without actually having to get all wet. It was hard to describe rain, he thought, as he looked out across the rooftops, seeing trees bend in the wind and small droplets of water slanting down sideways. Because with rain you couldn’t really describe the smell, or that feeling that it makes you feel, something close to satisfaction. The way that the rain changed all of the colors of the world, making the greens greener and the thick blanket of grey that covers the sky, makes it all that much harder to take in; like your senses can’t absorb it, like no matter how long you look at it you’ll never be able to remember exactly how the scene was, everything blurring together into one vague memory, all of the pleasant things extracted and compressed, until when, later, you try to recall the memory all you get is a faint echo. Jeff sighed. The rain had turned to a light drizzle now, now making him look like a very damp, very crazy person hanging out of a window. “As if I actually care what anyone thinks,” he thought to himself as he climbed back inside his room, and flopped backwards onto his bed.

There were a million and one things running through his head, as he lay down on his bed.  Each image blurred into the next until they became one humming drone of bumblebees buzzing and bouncing drunkenly around the inside of his skull. He closed his eyes but the images didn’t stop; he could just see the nauseating colors in greater focus. He sat up suddenly, as if awakening from a dream. Reality had slipped; but returned just as quickly, transforming, leaving an impression and a recurrent headache.




___________________________________________________________

Laila Majnu

Rachel showed me this. I was skeptical at first, but it is amazing. Watch it. Even though it's in Hindi.
I couldn't find a version with English subtitles, but if you have netflix, it's on there. Just search "Aaja Nachle" and skip until there's only 30 minutes remaining. And it has English subtitles.