Us.

i felt the rush as you leaned in

to kiss these parched lips that

had longed for your touch all

these years. your tongue exploded

inside my mouth and made me

hungry for more.

your kisses traced the neck line

of my dress and sent shivers

down my spine. you grabbed me

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On Prose.

Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.

When a surging wave of inexplicable words takes over you.
When you are ready to look yourself in the eye without revealing yourself to the seer.
When you wish to drown in your thoughts and accept them, for once.
When you open your heart out to the reader and yet not let him read you.
When you cannot contain the depth of your depths.

Music.

She hears the sound coming

from the musicians.

fresh, crystalline.

Out of the music a voice

rose as pure as the water

of the mountain streams.

It felt like a beam of light pierced the night

and a fragrance she could breathe

and a part of her own soul.

Flight: Nonet.

If we could fly away together, you and me,
and take our needed rest at a sailing
ship, & find fish to eat for dinner;
if we could share each other

I am.

I am the algebra, the meaningless numbers you cannot define.
I am the pain at the loss of something you wanted badly.
I am the brain chemicals which make you panic and act stupid.
I am the serial killer, the stranger in the dark.

Illusions: Haiku.

The worst feeling must be
when you choke on what you have
been trying to preserve: illusions.

Flight : Haiku.

The bird can fly free
on his wings, but without a nest
where will he return to?

I.

I don’t sin

I am the sin.

I don’t want love

I am love.

I don’t write poetry

I am poetry.

Layer.

Layer by layer
i reveal my self
to you, to your
curious heart.

Matter and Flesh.

I exist only at places
he touches me. The rest of me
is just matter and flesh.

Winter.

I tried to stitch myself into
it, but nothing held.
I am okay. It’s just that before
felt like a million rainbows,
superimposed over each other.
And i linger, as if still waiting
for them to magically reappear.

Books.

I shall die before i read
even one percent of the
books written.The words
that come out
of your mouth and
all the times you quote
satiates me.

Life: Haiku.

The moment you give up
chasing life, you’ll see the traces where
trees meet grass and intertwine.

They.

He loved her.
She was his drug: the
kind he’d daily snort
on and crave for more.

Blues.

There has to be the blues because
some kinds of sadness are better than happiness.

Misery loves company.

Kills.

Words that diminish the
spirit by their force.
Or perhaps, his silence
does that better.

Dreams of acceptance
and love wither as reality
unveils itself. And you wake
up to darkness.

Jealousy, insecurity,
and silent death in those eyes. The
stranger’s eyes.

Wish.

He types an e mail into
his blackberry. His suit
fitted to perfection.
The wind blows and he drives
away in his black car.

Sixty.

Men who write poems at
60, have found a lover.
The wonder of their universe.

Women who write poems at
60, have found themselves.
The wonder of their universe.

Sorrow: Haiku.

You can contain only that

much joy in you, as much as

sorrow you’ve been living with.

Yes.

When i was still yours
all the words i whispered
have no meaning now,
they’ve withered and died
like us.

Am I?

As my heart races under
goose bumped skin,
tell me if i’m too weak
to devour every
word that comes out
of your mouth.

Or say if i’m not.

Cried.

I cried when i left
you. Silent tears,
that hurt my insides.

I cried when i realised
you wouldn’t follow.
Howled, each night.

YourSelf.

How much does it
take to being yourSelf?

Sadness.

Sadness is just a little
crack in my life, that
i fall into every now and then.
Clumsy, sickening, unstable.
Unaware and tied to this
invisible rope that pulls me
deeper as i fall, each time
i fall. Misunderstood, as
if i was pushed into it.

Untitled.

I am watching myself do
things i’ve never done.
Like travelling down cities
only to see you briefly.

I can hear myself say
words i will never say again.
Like begging you to stay
forever.

Falling.

I sit and watch it growing in me.

Slowly and steadily.

 With every breath i take in.

 It expands.

So much that at times i

feel miniscule in front of it.

It is THAT overwhelming.

Send Me.

Send me that moonless night you couldn’t get through

 And the poems you wrote for her when she loved you.

 Send me that song you sang for her, each time you met

And the image of those eyes you can’t forget.

 Send me those memories you’ve wrapped in green

And the times you told her to come back, in vain.

Longing- Her Story.

She stands in the verandah
looking at the rain caressing
the ground. She can, but
only think of him.
She loved the rains best
when he was around and
she knew she’d just have to
ask. He’d come. Always.