If love had another name
What would that be
Would it be night sky
With stars sprinkled and voids in between
Or the morning sky
With warmth of the sun
And clouds hovering above your head

Would it be food
That makes you crave badly
To try the same cuisine again
Or would it be like travel
That makes you tickle
To look around new places

Perhaps, love is like the dish
You had ordered with leftovers on plate
Or like flowers you tied into a bouquet
And forgot to put in a water filled vase
Or like a place you visited, clicked pictures
And cribbed about a few restaurants
Or streets you didn't like much

Or save for what i say
I guess love is everything you wish it to be
But it's not
Yet you are all groomed up, ready
To be deaf, dumb and fooled by it.

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With the ascend of winter
and the year coming to a close
I pause to count on the happenings
I got myself fit into.

I realise somethings are short-lived
like days we live, tan on my skin and us,
each lasting as long as the pain of a pinch

Then there's something
called constants in life
like memories,
my repeated failure
to learn say goodbye
and you.

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What's your idea of love
Is it like the seasons
with transitions so prominent

Or like each passing day
which feels the same
yet as you look back, you realise
everything has changed

Or is your idea of love
like a year that begins with
promises and hope
and no matter how many
of them gets fulfilled,
we live/celebrate, try to fit in/smile
and keep our hope lit
even after we say goodbye

-

A half written poem
a story lost in time
you are the one i look for
in faded memories
and crowded streets.

Like words slur
in drunken conversations
and secrets that slip by
I am afraid, my love for you leaks
out of these lines i write.

I hope one day i realise
there's a madness your name
brings in to me, one trance at a time
Cz like I regret tequila shots
After its down my throat
I regret
remembering you, a love
that's lost in time.

-

Love Proposal : How do I say?

-

In caption

-

You and I
went on with our lives
like lovers pluck flowers
and leave it to die.

The old chains of time
though still binds
but does the ragged feet
care any more
with hope exchanged
against heaps of excuses that lie?

-

Maybe poems are a lie
and stories, an imagination
represented by dust particles on screen,
too far from reality to touch.

For look at love,
dipped in flaws with edges that cut
here bleeding hearts continue with a smile
walking on misguided rails laid by
fairytales you once read.

But how do I
hold the writers guilty
when they are broken hearts
penning down their fantasies.

-

I wonder how things were
once upon a time,
when you are waiting
with no phone in your hands -
to randomly call someone to kill the time
or to scroll your Instagram page
until you stumble across something worthwhile.

I wonder what it was like
in those days to have to pretend
to be occupied
or to fill in those awkward times,
with a phone in hand
to note my random thoughts
as I wait for my friend to arrive.

-

There's this rush of thoughts
in my mind that I wish to write
but halfway through,
they diffuse in air.

I wish I could chain them,
hold them back
or maybe
they just stayed back on their own
like my insatiable greed for verses

But then
wouldn't it be a paradox -
talking of art and wishing for constraints?


//is it me or are we all
contradictions in ourselves?

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