If you were here, even if it were just as a shadow,
the cobwebs wouldn't be giggling hard
when mosquitoes tickled them on their fluffy stomachs,
like a well-fed retriever's,
or a torn teddy's with cotton spilling out,
Raindrops wouldn't leave kiss stains on the windows,
And washed clothes won't beg for a dried flower's fate,
I wonder why they don't enjoy being soaked?

If you were here, even if it were just as a passing moment,
Your favourite bone china would still be away from the dining,
I wish you were annoyed enough with me
to walk down
and keep it back on the shelves.

If you are here, right now,
Come, let's take a walk, and remember your smile
So that I never forget how beautiful it was.

-

This poem is l'zy
it wants a cuppa t
to charge its battery
but the commas are
shrinking in the freazer
full stops r in the sink
milk 'n' sugar sunk in pastrea
is the poem losyng its mind
it is now falli'g
l'zy to hold the railing
a...a...a...h
the d e n are still missing

-

All these little things

-

A soft nudge with a puppy face smile. A glass of water, half-filled with invisible sorries. Five pieces of an eight piece dairymilk. A soft toy throw straight on the face. Pulling the leg. Tickling the feet. Enacting a drama actress with glycerine eyes. Hiding the pillow. Sticker spam on WhatsApp. Stub your toe. Hide the pen and the nail trimmer. Again, a nudge. Hide the spectacles, the mobile and act innocent. Magically bring them back. Cook. Go back to your room. Sit quietly. Think that sorry isn't a god forbidden profanity. Wait and wait. Say, 'to err is human, to forgive is divine. You are divine.' Say sorry. Say all this with a wolf-like smile. A chimpanzee smile. As if you were a kid in the zoo. Pull a cheek, maybe yours. Wrap an arm around their shoulders or sit next to them. Listen. Listen quietly. Listen to all the stories, not saying a sorry would've hindered. Make them giggle. Tickle.

-

Things you can find under your bed

-

when the wall fell to its feet

-

Bundled

-

Things to say instead of I miss you

-

Come, sit.
Tonight, water is tripping
for the stage is cloudy,
papa has slipped a few
naphthalene balls
everywhere fungi could sneak
sweaters, blankets, books
photographs, all inside the bed
where life moves above
every now and then
mama has planted
coriander, because
it cost her forty rupees
roti-chutney misery
has become costly now,
don't you think?
Sometimes I question
where do prayers go?
Would praying a cancellation
mean a wrecking cyclone?
But then, I look at them
smiling at old photographs
looking at me,
Perhaps God says,
Come, sit,
sit and watch,
your order has been shipped.

-

To time, and if not now, then when?

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