Pleasure for some, pain for many, intentionally for none.

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Can we unlearn love and loving?

No ? How could we ?
Afterall, aren't our hearts were
soaked in saline and buried.
What can grow if not poems and
poets who can write anything but
still can't hide every-thing ?

A thing like 'love' ?
~ Probably, we need to be better
actors along with poets.

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July arrived lately and
half of it passed, unheard.
I wonder what might grow
in here, a place trapped
between two ends of year.

I found an abandoned bench near the
old teak where fence breaks. I sat.
July. To me, it felt as going around
circles I drew on last page.

Opening windows every morning,
sneaking two scoops of milk powder,
one in cup, brewing schedules with
dash of happiness and scrambling
eggs, a little over with pain.
— % &Our soul still glued on last page of our
kindergarten notebook and July feels like
the other scoop of milk powder
melting on my tongue. Sweet.

Of Aprils and Augusts, after January
and Junes, July came like a reminder,
reminding me to keep what resonates
and leave what doesn't. — % &

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The universe holds enough love.
Enough love to cure marks love left. — % &He is wild free ocean
and I've paper heart.






Our edge melts, collapse
and now together we are
gentle forms of poetry.— % &I have brought different
cities on my living room's
cabinet.








But my home still smells
like dew grass, old books
and you. — % &

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We all dwell around oceans,
where our 'once upon a time'
wave breaks into tiny tales on
the shore.







They sail back into the deep and we move ahead after
dusting our feet off with sand but, keeping a part of
ourselves in that pale seashell you threw out your
salted pocket for them, waiting, when they come upon
our paper hearts again.

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