~you will always be dear to me.

Love or not, as familiarity loses its fragrance and a rigid shape,
there will always be a past to return to, where you were mine
and loved coffee a little too sweet and your bracelets frayed at ends.
When time and distance make it hard to go for a hug
and let recognition of a habit bloom through, your doe eyed gaze will always put a smile on me,
perhaps by a love that made you turn towards me at a far corner of a crowded room and let an unrestrained smile soften the edges of your face,
a love that was always let free enough to be, wherever we meet as a coincidence.
Maybe I won't love you enough to pull you into a warm embrace or let myself pulled into one.
Maybe while your hands hold somebody else's my fingertips will twitch to hold yours.
Maybe I will carry our ending grief and good times while you will have learnt to carry somebody else's laughter in the cracks of your palms.
Perhaps, I will still love you then as I love you now and as I learnt to love you in your presence.
Perhaps I will have learnt to let go of a summertime love that lasted years through winters and springs.
And perhaps I will let somebody hold me and let me fall back on them.

-

~Looking back on all the roads I have ever walked, I don't think I have done justice to any of them when all I could do wasn't just cry, cling and carve. I could have held them in my arms too or maybe just a little longer of the time and turbulence, a little lesser of the space and silence asked them if I deserved all of it. And if I really did, why were the skies always blue or bluer? Why not greyest of all the whites who would rain into me the dearest of all the deaths I witnessed? Why were the shades of all the poignant sips of teas that burnt my throat and not my mouth served to me when the sharpest of all swords, reasoned with all the sacrilegious inks I embedded on papers slashed over my hands? Why were all the springs and autumns let to bloom achingly in my heart when summers were enough to rip it into shreds, that could never feel the warmth of winters? Why was I allowed to breathe all that I left with content when the air, I poured the poison into, could have ignited in me the last of all the things I lost and never wanted back? Was I a sinner or a sinful bleeding sheet that never learnt to burn? I cried and I cry but no one hears. I fear not if it is unheard but unvoiced.

-

~somedays it is me and my prayers
other days it is you in my prayers
To the dates I read you, I am a window
For the days I write, I become a vision
I no more am a character, to a story
For tragedies at the end,
I am a paroxysm.

-

• ||Along the moribund beats of monsoon ||•


Inked o'er grazed, crawled forth her fingertips
onto the violet winds and white waves untamed
bluest of the blues had bloomed within her sins
yet intangible florets of dandelions inveighed
sere and stricken awaited her mendicant gaze,

"O artist of hyacinths and lilacs! make me thy art,
no lyres, no hymns, I hanker, no asters of a heart
gift me a crevasse, the cage of rhymes,
make me a metaphor or sage of times
let me bleed on the ropes of your syllables,
make me the moment or a maze of nettles
let me bloom on suburbs of a carnation bed,
make me wilt as the path of primroses lead
let me sing on the hemmed corners of a crescent hall,
make me listen missed and met lines of a spring fall!"

Unknown to the aequoreal, aquamarine pastiche
emollient elision of the words rising to submerge
curdled verglas, underneath flame sans surcease
for the efflorescence a poet, to the salinity a verse
vestigial to the lucent shrines, a cimmerian daze

-

Dancing in a sodden vestibule, venerated Endymion
Dribbled wine and water, port and sherry vermillion
Through monstrance adders, in the yarns belladonna
Transient hearth, fluorescent ember, baroque chimera.

-

•//Amaranthine Petunia and Pansy//•

~beauty to your sentences
and nightshades to my name,
where resided syllables
with no defined consonants,
to bound the screeches made
to gorgonize and to jargogle,
twattling in twitter-light
constellated birds, thrived
an island now to you then to me.
In your words, no spaces distanced hearts,
In my billet-doux, no ranconteur
could delineate redamancy
Under the branches and
over the twigs, no philocalist
to write a verse or two,
Inside the heart, played a rhyme
moribund_the heartbeat,
yearned a pen, to end the hiraeth
of brumous musical sheets it sent away
with feuillemort poetry and autumn sun.
Lilac and dahlia bloomed
till each ached and lilies of the vale
whelved each of the unseen and
unheard erased confessions,
through words the other never spoke,
through eyes the other couldn't read,
and shined above all a starry sky
deprived of the moon.

-

~tea cup and a glass of wine
half full and half emptied,
streetlamp and a starship
unlike
gossamer tippet and tulle,
liminal coiffure.
quondam patriot
shrived broken lyres
and we met again.

-

~with my mind having become
a cage for you where I am chained,
I wonder how you earned
the whole of my heart
to set you free.

-

'It is beautiful.'
'It is.'
'The winds sow chills, don't they?'
'They do.'
'It is a little colder than yesterday.'
'Is it?'
'Isn't it obvious? We feel it.'
'I don't feel so.'
'It still is the same even if
you don't feel or maybe know it.'
'To the other person, it may change,
you never knew
anyway'

-

"She set it ablaze, moonlight and sunshine, laughter along the rivers",

I read and I see the scenery of primroses and sunflowers that is you.
I feel a slave to my own values. I feel a murderer to my own dreams.
I feel nothing. I feel everything. I feel us.
The more I dive into the ocean that is you, the deeper I find my way.
I feel lost. I feel left. I feel myself.
The more I approach the dream that is you, the more you seem distant.
I feel lied. I feel hoaxed. I feel betrayed. I feel you.
The more I shine the stars and galactic bars in a galaxy that is you,
the more I cry the nights in my sky.
I feel fake. I feel pretence. I feel clouds.
The more I see the sunset that is you, the more my dawn darkens and the morning never comes.
It feels fabricated. I feel trapped. I feel insecure. I feel a rose.

In a snow piercer left alone, with a mind which feels nothing and a heart which feels everything, I become a bottle of wishes sunk in tears.
I feel trapped. I feel unknown to my own self. I feel like waves. I feel washed off.
I feel a bygone love poem.
I feel your presence. I feel the forever.

-