Libraries are a home to trees, dead.

Maybe thats why he read her etched grave everyday.

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Tears in the freezer
for all the agony
you can't eat in a day
Leftovers don't go
stale
They become gulp-able
the next day.

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Summer sends postcards to all the season
asking "is it my time now?"
while the winter faces empty streets
and bare bodies, smiling, looking
at the postcard from his friend,
not spring, but summer.
A warm yellow hue somewhere burns
in the logs where winter puts the
postcard to keep the fire a little longer.

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The t.v. echoes the tiny world and its sins.
How would the bloated street empty the footpaths, with flickering lights, forgetful names and holed ambitions?
Filthiness settles in dustbins and i watch someone empty the tins.

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You are standing in front of my doorstep, like a kid, not expecting but wishing to get a treat and i don't know how to process the passing of july yet...

(Letter month ki jay ho...)
~In caption~

-

okay.

A apology to self for abandoning this home.
I swear, it feels illegal to be here now, like i moved out of my home and i return here like a guest.

Well. Okay.

That's it.

-

Your voice wakes even the darkest corner of mine,
candles light up to lead the way.
Hello? Am i listening to each word of yours?
Or becoming everything without you?

-

Higher the walls, more see-through windows,
more intruders, less treasure, more locks, no chains, more wind, storms, tornado, no blankets, no warm candles, no warmth can handle this.

More space, more empty-filled rooms, more noise, at day and night, no screams, only shells cracks on the floor. Horrifying. No jumping from now on. Higher the walls, humpty dumpty's soul always warns.

-

The doors were open.

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Vul-narratable

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