On my desk lies "Tuesdays with Morrie"
I find something unique in
melancholic movies and books
they are always my first choice
and a frail regret.
I pace slowly to not be pulled into
unconscious waters and crumbling insecurities
Circling around and tethering me into pieces
Throwing me on the floor,
drenched in the sadness of a loss,
I often forget, I vicariously lived.
To the world "Tuesday's with Morrie"
is a memoir but to me it's more
of a love shared between
a student and his professor
You can blame me for
tying everything with love
Perhaps that's a problem I have
to look for love in the tiniest of things,
pile up everything and make it
Out of proportion
for love is no osmosis process
but a star burst that scatters one
into tiny, shiny, beautiful pieces.
(In caption, continued)-
He has a chivarolous smile
that melts my heart
like butter on toasted bread
I gollop his french style scrambled eggs
with a sip of chamomile tea
as he sits across the table,
telling stories about his new job
and all I can see is his smile
that stays constant thorough out.
He pauses to ask me,
"What are you smiling for?"
I reply, "Cheese over cream
and oregano over white pepper"
"Ya, that's the way I like" he said
I take a moment and realise
It's always been his
over mine that he preferred.
He breaks the silence
persuading me, for another serving
I smile nodding a no.
Am I full? How could I be
I bid my hope, a goodbye
My desires, scattered
like the breadcrumbs on plate.-
You and I are regular silverwares,
on which words taste like home.
The edges, uneven, with scratches
embodying our stories,
like fine lines present in our palms
You and I are dahlias wrapped
in yellow, blushing under the summer sun;
and also, pansies drowning in
each other's purple, blue and pink.
You and I are missed sunrises
spilled milk, burnt toast and creased shirts
chasing buses in the morning
and staying up late, counting stars at night
You and I are secret glances, stolen kisses,
shy smiles and inadverent touch of hands
that as souvenirs in our pockets, we carry
everyday, folded neatly.
You and I dance under the moon
On Ed Sheeran's 'Perfect' song
but we are like this,
an imperfect poem
that knows not, how to start,
how to end, yet goes on
blotting papers with words
the way, lovers mark territories
on each other's bodies.-
An untasteful life, I wish to live
Make fewer sins
Shroud in shimmery success
Scale my tongue, slather it with honey
Be a shoulder, to someone
Be the hand, lend in crisis
I wish to smell like happiness,
but this resembles a dream, seen in sleep
I am tainted, bearing an appetite for more
Find the solemn life, sour
I ache for the bitterness of betrayal,
Seek for unsweetened proposals,
Swallow unsalted words,
otherwise labelled, promises.
I crave for the savoury taste of love,
yearn to feel the rush of adrenaline,
Be erratic and clingy.
I am done towing the line
I have had enough of sanity
I now wish, to make a few more sins
I now wish, to live my life.-
You are last night's memory
washed in gin,
dream that faded in sleep,
and tears that dried inside.
You are the words
I look for under my bed.
An idea that turned pale
in folds of life,
A love, I still romanticize.
I wish I could hold you,
feel your innocence,
kiss you and realise my existence,
I wish I could breathe by your side
watching the starry night
and catch your rhythm,
dance the way you rhyme
You are the conversations
inside my head,
Days I paint about,
Words I feed upon
You are the remains
of every faded nights
The love, undone
The poem I wish, I could write.-
My love! You are the poem, I wish to write
and tomorrow, that never arrives.
You are like the honey glazed donuts,
cardamom crushed in tea,
and zaffran in biryani,
enlivening the monsoon in me
and the autumn, I never had.
I wish I could wrap you in words
with metaphors sprinkled,
rhymes gliding through the edges
and symbolism as fragrant as your presence.
I wish I could describe to you,
the smell of jasmine and daisies,
your smile planted in my heart
and paint you in tangerine and pink
like the sun kissed summer, painted the sky,
as I waited hours, by the shore,
watching you sommersault.
Oh my love! How I wish, I could write you a poem
that's beyond sunsets and wine, but everytime I try,
there's you, there's you, there's you, my love!-
Red brick buildings, clay tiled roofs,
pallid blue doors and windows,
dandelions dancing to the tune
of the breeze, air filled with
the smell of incense sticks and sound of ladles,
hung from steel racks that allures one,
more than sparkling crystals on chandelier.
Here evenings are still greeted
with conversations warmer than
steaming cup of tea and songs
of Kishore Kumar played on carvana.
There's a quaint romance in these buildings.
Even with dripping taps and paint scraping
from the walls, it leaves you soaked
in nostalgic fragrance of daily lives,
a romance that historical lovers
like Shah Jahan missed while immortalising
their love in monuments, we romanticize with.-
My heart is in the shape
of an infinity loop
feeding on rom coms,
poetry and love songs,
oblivious of the blurred lines
that seperates reel from reality.
Yet what a shame it is
to blame the heart
to fall and fail in love,
on repeat
-
Sitting in the corner
arms crossed, tight
holding sorrows
closer to chest
The sun casts its light
marking rings of anxiety
all over the body
Towers of thoughts
wind up in silver wrappers
of soul's cravings
There are lives,
beyond our thoughts
across our sights
bound in barbed wires.
Be that as it may
in oblivion we stay
detesting our lives,
stirring our own well of despair.-