You're in love when a single gaze shiver down your spine and the goosebumps on your skin gets written in braille, that none is sought to understand but your blind heart does and a single touch freeze your soul & lets your heart melt.
You're in love when you start drinking promises in a wine glass and your teary eyes start dreaming about lighting warmth in winters that keeps love aflame, you both lick each others wounds with chapped lips to put healing in a winsome frame.
You're in love when the beats on your heart flows like rivers along valleys which are afraid to kiss the ocean yet, there's a longing for the language from which two tongues are set apart like the scriptures of destiny engraved on our palms and foreheads.
You're in love when you don't pluck roses but grow them in between your smiles so that each time you both press lips a rose could bloom making you chant a prayer for your beloved, and you walk like an incomplete poetry awaiting for a perfect end to grasp those fingers while tracing back lovelorn sonnets of Shakespeare.
I'm afraid to put #love in words because it has no bounds.
I have been growing hope in your backyard, to raise unsaid fantasies from your invisible cloak, not to let them wither into hallucinating nightmares this time, but to bloom them into clovers of freshly scented dreams flourishing betwixt eyes impregnated of sateen.
I have been painting hope on the sky, for days when our hearts like paper planes crash and sink into another caramel mead. So that clouds draw wings on them of each fallen leaf to let our love fly as the splintered scarlet dewdrops settle over some bosky weeds.
At fussed morning when dawn breaks, a bird flies, flutters its wings and by evening a flight she takes. At the end of night when dawn breaks, no rooster flaps treason, maybe patriarchy is yet to lay its feet on sky. Soon a flight she takes and another dawn breaks.
When the years blow and the folklores are pinned under dense canopy, traditions are drifting yet kept for singing songs of revolutionary melody. On the trapped streets, she ignites reigning and freed bars for a change. On the caged horizons, she keeps flying and break limits for another change.
It's my nineteenth October an epoch spent over aeons by me: a teenage girl who may look ordinary but in the most rational way, a vintage soul mismatched with this colourful world, rejuvenating overseas.
Thousand times in a mirror, thousand times on azure lake, I've convoluted chaos and insanity that lurks to storm up.
A child of June - I am, no the flora of all seasons, but deep within I'm raining ephemeral tears unlike the cascade dripping eternally, every year.
Autumn may live, trees may stand but I was the maple leaf odd one out always, I'm still, which won't resurrect unlike the drowning sun over horizon.
Moon, being naked, will prevail but I'll be scratched to reality even if I'm layered with synthetic of enduring and pragmatic wars.
From pristine bliss of childhood to hardcore pastels of adulthood, from one season to another, there's a beauty in change that smells for one more decade.
Our lives are transient like those wretched minds falsifying faith in poets while abandoning the epiphany of poetries but our existence is abstract the way nature transpire it's virtues and significance for centuries.
Wanted to say a quick hello, amongst all the endless unpacking! I hope all are well, and that each of you are enjoying a great start to this new year. I'm looking forward to catching up with everyone's work as soon as we get the house settled. At the moment, all I can see are brown cardboard boxes from wall to wall, so I'd best get back at it. Hope to read you soon! ♀️
P.S. Regarding the picture, pretty much me at the moment, but not me; and minus the fancy dress, the blonde hair, and the alcohol.
Begin by writing down the names of several people you know well and often come across in your home, school or neighborhood. Now pick one or two of those people and write a poem describing their attributes—how they look, sound, smell, move and behave.
I've built a paper town, Where gypsies halt At lighthouses And pigeons deliver, Their mothers' touch The peddlers sell orphan smiles To barefoot cuckoo's on snowy roofs Houses here, Are mixtapes Of every word you ever wrote And every tune the gypsies sung The maple leaves harvest acid rain, For every autumn that ever passed. The fast cars in your neon-lit city Often loose track to end up here I'm the calm of a warm blue sky You're the call of the electric blues This is the milkyway of transition Where stars align with dreamy hopes You're the nomad to cityscapes I'm the road to autumn town
You're the atlas to foreign world I'm the map you never touched.
~M e g h a// Apocalypse
The song that inspired me: Autumn town leaves by iron & wine
Today it's been raining since 3 o' clock in the morning, and the sun never made it to my frosted window. It's the month of January, a preordained winter sits on my bones willing to live longer than this apparent halt in time, but they say winter is cruel and I can't tell otherwise.
The sound of rubber wheels hissing over the wet road, rainwater splashing on cars like blanched blood shed in a timeless rebellion with the sky, everything seems to be following some ritual of the past where none but winter survives.
It's quiet at my place today. With less people, there's less noise and more silence. It's still raining outside. I keep my window closed; there maybe an incursion anytime, they say and I believe. Winter is cruel, and my bones aren't resilient to time.
In the folds of October's sapphire pleated skirt runs an archived tale of us, In zig zags of cave paintings, fanning wide like a peacock's feather, immortalized on red spit charcoal and mud, And God knows then, I had an unfettered wing for a limb, and an unhooked spine unrushed, gliding in sync with you on the dreamy lush of a twilight embracing an ember studded sky.
Autumn is as much a passing dream as Winter is an uninvited guest sipping on black dregs of melancholia and regrets, Burying hand stitched leaves of our psychedelic love in alien sheets of ice and frost. When the snow seeps into the roof of my naked shoulders, your furlough goodbyes that lodges deep into the doorknob of my heart, fester and wounds, like bullets fired point blank and the holler of a moribund echo recants.
I sit bereft of words now, And from the casket of ancient yesteryear's flutters the forgotten wings of an unweighed heart, waiting for the stroke of your thumb on my eyebrows and let loose my frowns into smiles. I sit bereft of words now, Waiting for the familiar touch of your warm hands to turn the doorknobs and usher the gold of Autumn in. I have never said it loud, never once in words, But God knows, the world was kinder when I had you by my side Then, I had lesser scars to sew.