The sound of time

We were walking the same path
she- in colours
me- in hues.
A path everyone keeps
talking about.
I steal glances to make sure I’m okay
she glances to make me feel okay.
We crossed oceans
one heavy with depth
Another heavy under the depth.

The intensity with which
one resemble their mother
is terrifying.
For a few days or so,
like the waves we leave
then return
we always come back
there’s always home, in mother.

Wrapped hands around knees
The thrill of beginnings in my heart
without realising
I keep turning into my mother.

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Watertight compartments

A house always does
what a house should do
no matter the cost,
for the benefits are worth.

A high wall, a decorated lawn
Pretty to look at
hard to be seen.
A tall gate, beautiful colours
Stone-cold beauty
Impregnable.

Empty marbles
Indeed a marvel!
A graveyard waiting for all
to join in,
Can’t claim all the land.
Why don’t you just live?

Languorous eyes- Villanelle

Piercing gaze of pines;
So much life on the verge of dying but
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

We lose something everyday;
I’m calling us we, though
The Art of losing is really easy.Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

Home

Home.
Comfort to some
trigger warning to others.
I know you hate my generation
The self labbed
Woke people
Who are drunk on one side of a story.
I am a generation
The one who is totally
Failing at being what
We’re to be.
You take pride in
Densely packed
nervous buildings
glued together with curiosity,
not hope.
And call this a living.
You and I have
different understandings of home.
I have seen too much of waves
to call shore
As my home.

Chemical Hearts

I failed to check the alphabets
and ended up writing about love.
Once you asked me
how to write a poem on love
and I’m still searching for words.
I was trying to know love and poetry.
So I held my pen tight
and hoped for you to see the ink flow
through my fingers,
droplets dripping from my nails
to the hem of your shirt,
but you stayed there,
without a word
for none of us was ready to speak.

Well now,
I’m looking at your hands;
painfully beautiful hands.
I’m trying to reach out
and hold you.
Your soft, tender palms
come crashing me down
like the fresh waves at dawn.
I recognise the hands
I never held,
like your fingers were
designed to fit in mine.
But
Neither of us is ready.

Each day feels like a product
product of last words.
Words are crushing.
We’re yet to learn language.
Both of us are
waiting
for the other to speak.

You already know how this works;
I let you hold my hand
when we’re crossing streets,
Neither of us is bad at it.
Neither of us is ready to let go.

Of Love and Worries

Maybe we’re just born to love and worry about the people we know, and to go on loving and worrying even when there are more important things we should be doing.

~Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You


There’s this shade of brown
in your eyes
that make brown
more than just brown. You hate your eyes,
for the world
made you believe
Only blue is pretty.
And being a boy
you’re supposed to love blue.
Is what you’re paying worth the cost?
I worry about the way
your words form in your mouth
when you’re hurt.
I worry about the intensity
of your feelings and
I’m scared of the depth
with which you feel.
To tell you the truth,
I love you for the depth
in your emotions.
I’m afraid. Afraid
You’d leave
Am I investing too much?
Too much, too soon?
But I don’t know
how to stop.
How do I tell you
That I love you
and not act on it?
The world is on the verge of dying.
Age old civilizations
are about to fall.
From science to our faiths,
everything is shattered.
Everything is Sea.
Everything is land.
Sky is nowhere to be found.
And
I’m here,
Writing and worrying about you
While there’s a lot to do
To love
To see
To learn.
But I guess, this is what
makes us human.
Makes us, us.

(Image from Pinterest)

Skinship

Kafka said “all the love in the world is useless when there is total lack of understanding”. But, how do you make someone understand love?

Fear is a toothless beast.
I see you move across the house and wait for you to see me.
I have been writing on the shape of your mouth; it’s been days since you held me close.
I wonder what you think of the colour violet, you still love it?

I close my eyes
and you’re still here.
here and there
– everywhere.

Quick sand is diminishing through the hourglass. As if wind is carrying me away from you. In a flash I see you, then you’re gone. I’m taking care of flowers, lilies are blooming. You left me a candle of darkness.
I’m longing to feel your touch, mother.

Language of History- A poem

I met this girl who made me believe that earth is round and it indeed moves around its axis. I was looking through the tinted glass, rain pouring like flowers in spring air – utter melancholy, here and there.

She came to me, asked for what I want, that girl with blue eyes and purple lips; hair as red as sun and hands so pale, like she never knew light, avoiding the sun; the way lovers avoid trauma bound conversations.

History dripped from her words; a dialect I never heard of. For you, natural instinct might be to correct the pronunciation.
However, I kept listening to her. She showed me different types of coffee, and asked me to choose one, as it’s cold and romantic. I have no preferences in coffee, cold is a feeling that reminds me of life and romance? I’m a hopeless romantic.
I asked her to choose one instead, then she  assured me to be back with a coffee made by love for the lover.

I was still lost in translation, vernacular is bliss. Like love can only be described best in the mother tongue; her words seemed to be as old as time.
I am no philologist yet I’m stuck in time, trying to make sense of history.

She served me as-it-is: the words of generations, which she said her father had taught her, for her mother was too busy trying to birth a boy. The words which surely stay the same with tingling aroma of coffee.

Summer

What is summer if not the
excitement brought by
fragrance of spring
tangled in cold wind,
running through the hills
desperately,
to reach the soil blooming
in plains??

The sun shinning over trees
The source of light and heat
curing blues of winter patiently
and the pearly clouds around
playing hide and seek.
Doesn’t the Sky feel dreamy?

The enticing aroma
of fleshy mangoes
is scattered around the
spring dominating branches.
Birds, now and then
take shelter in curled
lively trees.
Life is blooming everywhere.
Life is inviting me to live.

Garden

Another day while I was trying
to escape from the dark,
I saw this boy
in middle of the park.
Everyone was sitting in shade
but he sat in open,
The smile on his face
was near to broken.
Instead of sky
I started staring him,
when our eyes met
his went dim.
He got up and started walking
towards my way,
shaking hair, a mixture of black and grey.
Abruptly, he gave me a smile
the one, hard to exist,
Before leaving, he gave me a star
on my wrist.