In this present environment, with a round pillow under my back it's tough to come up with a thought or two. The exchange of lips is a serene moment. It's serene only when it's safe and respectful or when we look back we see black dots instead of roses. Drop down your chores and dive deep into this for two minutes. You are supposed to trace your fingers on the contours of a waist and pull her forward, worship her cheeks like your life depends on it. And she would lean forward if she wants to, and if she does, don't let her go for a good 5 minutes. Lift her butt up, choke her neck. Make her sit down and giggle all you want. It could be the last time, you could die tomorrow. You can keep your eyes closed, you can keep it open. There are red wires in eyeballs, those red wires come up when the eyes want to cry. This is a very suggestive text. I want to sound as real as Michelangelo did while sculpting bare hands on soft thighs.
And I wish I could write more on this.
I have got some work to do. Until then, read it twice.
there's a place, there's a place : we both have been going; if everything is exactly as it seems, can I be the footprints to your snow ? can I be the heels that you would put on, once you're ready to go ?
there's something that you should know : you're a surefire product of cosmic wizardry; and me, me, I'm spending every day, every hour, every minute, every second and whatever time it takes for the most delicate hand on the clock, to move from one number to the next one : just to be next to you, register every breath, every time you look towards me, or, pull away : I remember, everything, I want to remember, everything, only with you, everything, only about you.
everything, only about you, like : how you always wanted those freckles on your face, how you used to love the warmth, the warmth of the meadows on a bright, sunny day. you're much magnificent, once you lay down in your red overalls, the era of rest and relaxation washes you away; your fingertips are mine, as much as your heart is, and, is it a coincidence that all of my favourite dreams revolve around you ?
you love the sun, and I have never been able to touch Daedalus, let alone be his son : but, I would gladly be your winged creature, your Icarus. the sun sets slow, slower, with you — Evanie, my love, you take me back to my seventeenth, and, by the time we're back to our twentieth again : my words would wash acrost, the fane that your face is, my poetries would meet you, once the last digit flips to two.
Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".
I have forgotten how to write a poem. How does it begin and end when you are only familiar with the broken part of a story. Find me a word, one that fits so well between the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall. Maybe that's how you start, from the middle, the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments that fell in tune with the wind when you gently opened the windows to welcome the cold. Every other winter before becomes irrelevant; mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin. How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance; and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground, the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay. You sit beside the open window, gazing at the setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep inside your skin. Perhaps that's how it ends, when things that were never meant to stay become a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.
the nights are a burden, an ember in my heart which is scared of feeling the burn : the bur- burden, of changes, of constantly thinking what makes me less of man, of being submerged by a sea of worry.
four days into my twentieth, I am reminded of my father's devilment, and, my mother's halo — the darkness of the night sky, and, the stars that twinkle at a distance; the distance that separates us. only if I could have the halo that crowns you and, put it across the horns on mine : I would, I would.
how long would it take for my ancestors to descend, and bathe me in the cascade of death. lately, writing a piece has been no less than committing a deadly sin — these words, they don't do justice to the sorrow that sits inside my chest.
I climbed to the top of a dying tree, the world looks different compared to what it used to be, you look different because you could never fit the shoes, that you wished to wear. misplaced : misplaced, in a world of perfect breast implants; ironic, it's tough to fill your shoes, especially, when the anaemia is hereditary.
despite the things said and done, my Icarus would always be a victim to the Sun : you still cross my mind, every time, the door is left open; every time, you leave me undone.