I know, right now, you're leaning on someone else's shoulder,
appreciating the crystal of his eyes,
rejoicing in the warmth he brings to your morning coffee,
contemplating how things have gone outrageously right for you,
how you haven't wanted anything else.

I just want you to know I'm happy we loved once.
I have seen people , pathetic people, doing everything but love.
They share a bond of reliance,
get fascinated by each other's beauty,
salve insecurities, build protective walls around them,
yet miserably fail to love.

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When the monster comes,
be by my side.
When I am heavy—my lungs, heart, head
be by my side, vehemently.
With your eyes,
bright eyelashes,
warm breaths,
shed of your body,
moon of your soul,
lanes of audacity
calm me to death, my euthanasist.
Calm me to the cold, paved streets
sprinkled with diamond drizzles,
to the forehead of the Great Buddha.
Calm me to tears,
my euthanasist.

-

I look up to love that feeds on very little—
maybe a sunburst evening, gazing at a crimson horizon,
maybe a walk along an old paved road, where rain lilies peek through the cracks,
or a cycle ride through the countryside, among meadows,
just pure, lazy, aimless cycling, as if no one wants to move forward,
and stays in a cycle of warmth,
compensating for each unachieved dream with the comfort of togetherness.

I look up to love that requires little—
a love with a river running through it,
a love that can turn tears at the edge of eyes into diamonds,
a love that knows no world, no man—
a love that can weave quilts from heavy winter air,
and light a fire by the hum of a dark forest,
a love sustained by the old books of an abandoned library.

Fools are those who say love needs a vessel to be contained,
a tree needing water, soil, air, sun,
a being to be nourished and protected.
Love survives on little;
it endures the sea on stormy nights,
the clash of two warring nations.
It can bloom from the most barren concrete,
like red and purple bougainvilleas, with the audacity to bloom
unnoticed among the grey giants of the city.

-

Today I saw a kid barefooted
running after a butterfly
floating in ecstasy
gliding with vigour.
I didn't stop her
but this world will
Kids like her will return home
with stains of stigmas, grotesque social standards.
One day kids will no more run after butterflies
this will be ingrained in their spine,
and remain there for generations.

-

The fantasy island we make around us,
in our dreams, long persistent dreams,
that we work for, sweat for, long for
Suddenly crumbles to dust one day
darkness that was kept at bay with smoke of denial
those white little radiant smoke caved in by the lumps of dark heavy despair.
People walking the walk of life look fatigue
walk that started with ecstasy, vigour
fading itself to the inexplicable demons,
stand solitary before the arid graveyard wanting for escape.
"Where did it go wrong?" it echoes, reflects from the old tombstones, touches the creeper and crotons over it, pecks a contrasting lily in its petals.
"It always meant to be" a curtain of rumbling rain drops over.

-

If you come with human errors
a white stained canvas
a darkened oil paint
smudged eye lines
human touch
limits
if you really can bring along
all the wars, the bloodshed
and don't have regrets
skeleton of trees
foliage
I'll take you.
If and only if you come with
human errors, distunes
anti- melody
resonance
I'll take you.
come as if you don't have a
ruler to make straight lines
knowledge to fear
calculator to add
book to abide
I surely will take you.
If you appear as unceremonious as a moon
unanticipated as winter rains
beautiful as existence
trivial as breathing
I'll take you.

-

I'll cut loose one day
pull over by a sketchy station
get on board in the last train
that will travel through meadows
Woods
Seabeds
Glaciers
and perish eventually.
That way I'll never repent
not born to a dandelion.

-

We come across faces, faces become friends if opportunity allows us, friends become family and we start feel like home. We essentially destined to remain singular. Our roads are dissimilar in every possible space time continuum in every possible universe. The moment we start moving forward we leave a lot of homes behind. Doesn't matter how intricately made a home is we always find ourselves deserting that. All we left with memories and time keeps on eroding those to blunt. A home is best lived within it so does friendships. Tomorrow when I'll leave this town I will already have left lots of homes that I made over a month or so. All I pray our paths cross again and we sail small boats in retrospection.

-

Do I ask too much
when I ask for every last inches of you
every minute breath of you
every possible smell coming out of you
every spring, summer, monsoon of you
I don't think I do
How is it too much if I ask you to
walk pass a crosswalk blindfolded
tighten a choker around your neck
a cilice around your thighs
molten candles on your back
Have I ever complained your stabs
straight through my ribs crashing along my last masculinity
I never complained my floundering before death
Did I?

-

What we do is finding different templates of love and trying to fit in any one of them. We restlessly search that one template, that one mould to get moulded into. In terms of loving and getting loved we all are very predictable, sane and civilised but I believe the precondition of love is unpredictability and insanity. It's a sea that always challenges you with turbulences. To some people navigating towards the destination is love. For me love is the desperation of a clueless sailor in front of a colossal wave. Loving is floundering, it's the anxiety of getting drowned while still over the water. Drowning and dying is unlove and there's no doubt that. But gasping and believing that one will be saved is love. Love is a crisis, a catastrophe. It is excruciating and horrifying. It is what it is and still the most aspired because deep down we all are masochists.

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