We think of hundred opening lines. Some reach the outskirts of a dustbin, and the ones with old cheesy cliches cut right into the aimed targets. Some get their butts stuck to laptop screens and worn-out walls. While the others are busy playing the you-go-first, no-you-first game.

People walk away without announcements and we shake off their shadows from our shoulders. Let your poems be the same. Walk to the seaside and bottle up all the letters you left unsent. Don't bother about the ocean air making your hair messier or the peebles changing destinations. For a few, your poems are oil lamps, an old memory, a new eulogy. For some, they are beer cans, a new homage, an old lover.

This poem is made of nothing. Four heart valves still figuring out a topic to pump the words and let the poetry live for a little longer. Maybe we should start letting living be a part of our being.

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The wind whispered teasingly
giving a slight knock on the door
without ringing the bell.
I don't answer
like a phone call missed by one ring
and I wait for a while hoping for a second.

I remember you saying
it's better to not open than to shut
unless you're wishing to face a cyclone.
A moment of uncertainty
left a poem incomplete.

Maybe that's how few people read more
without bothering to write.

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Photographs

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Those tiny voices have grown all in my bare head
but none is real, like the weed unseen slaying me dead.
Build. Destroy. Rebuild. I wait for one more dread
not to fall over but to bleed another poem instead.

~caption

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A not-so-pink blush

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Because in my world,
i am constantly, constantly
falling for you.

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Unfulfilled wish

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A love so complicated

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Street lamps

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