yesterday, the sky looked
just like milk turning into paneer.
my sorrow broke,
separating from the hope.

I stepped out
of the stifling heat of the bus,
and it stirred in me slowly—

thoughts curdling
through the layers of my numb mind.
The silence of the street
crowded in

each realisation cold
like unboiled milk—
in quiet unsettling.

-

slit of pastel 
smudged not
to run out

-

I wash my face 
in the reflection of whom
is a mirror so capturing.

I loose my sight, and let 
myself be washed 
off into you.

continued in caption—

-

on the blindfold of luck I stumbled upon choices,
only when I loosened the grip did I see 
what was mine to truly choose.
I met my blue. Asked it to the sky — 
held in sparkling white
and footed to a swathe that offered shadows.
Over and again I returned to the must of the street
with guilt heavy in my feet.
As I walked, I stretched lights,
touched corners and broke softly.
I ran to the trees for the noise
that the sunlight made.

-

I got my right ear pierced with a silver ring. There was no pain—not even the sting of the needle. I had to ask him if it was really done.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, I gently caressed my earlobe. The ring. There was no blood. I could swivel it effortlessly.

When I returned home, my mother applied mustard oil boiled with garlic cloves. Lying on my left side, careful not to flip over, I felt a faint discomfort. It grew, slowly but surely, into excruciating pain. I couldn’t touch it. I slept, enduring it.

Over the next few days, my ear started to recover. Yet, every time I attempted to rotate the ring voluntarily, the pain varied in intensity. At times, it ached so much that I wanted to take it out and let the pain fade. At others, it was so sensitive that even the wind’s touch stung. And sometimes, though untouched, it throbbed with a lingering affliction.

Now. I have a gold piece. It shines.

-

Rest against the worn edge; 
this part of the book knows your hesitation, 

just so the words you've been searching for
feel like you're having your time return.

You've kept riffling through the same pages,
and they have grown loose and black, evidently.

Every single time I return to you,
would you not speak- only here?

-

what feels like 
a heavy rope
perfectly arched
on skin, is grief—
kept in balance
until it aches.

-

stitches on my head
disclose more 
than what 
my hairs could ever cover

a void like scalp 
is hurt that
stays
with no pain

-

too much there
I cannot express
except with words.

-

pick if you could

the ocean
from stars.

subdued so


it is here risen and swallowed
at the same time.

-