I thought you were
a ray of light
to me but
I closed
my eyes
and the
wet earth
whispered how
you stopped
shining and
blended with
the dark.

-

Hey you, there's this sapling of
a cherished wildflower I really
covet because it was the last
picture my grandma implored of
me to see a photograph of us
around those wildflowers before
etching her last breath all over her
bed to give me a safe haven when
I walked at 3ams down the aisle,
tiring myself so I could get sleepy.

June. Juno. And well all the good
things which have turned to you
know, bad. There's a little wildlife
ravaging across my friends' yards.
Not exactly little cause I don't want
you to feel all mighty. You're not
sparing them so of course you won't
spare me. Can you atleast give a life
to that little sapling? It has threads
of fibrin repairing the lesion you had
made way before. Don't burn more.
Please, don't snap that last thread
of fibrin. Let my blood clot. Let my
one last memoir clot over the raw,
wounded void that you had spared
me. My void. The innocence which
clung for life to the last thread.

-

Our hands used to fit
so well but then one
twilight, I mused off
and started carving
waning crescents and
you went away, having
decided on your own
that you could not fill
my craters even if the
universe and I pined to
convince you otherwise.

-

All the silence which lies scattered on my canvas makes me swallow dry
spit as I try to recall how perfectly our hands fit into each other but then
a tot sprayed a drop of black while he tried to draw how the ash of his
Pa looked. They cry and the lone black speck is being swathed all over
the canvas; making silence look mortal. A grey drug is injected in my veins and I carve a few waning crescents on my wrists. I smell the earth, the rain and
mumble how we had never yearned for the crater to be embedded
so deep, deeper than the ebony black coffin laid onto the parched mud.

-

When our hands went in
for a shake and then as
quickly as our hands departed,
it reminded me of our lives
being an incomplete infinity.
A secret, stolen touch here and
there and our fates would start
to reflect like an
alpha particle
in a magnetic field.
And the genesis of deflecting
would prevail.

-

"He was easy in a way the other guys could never be.
I would say his name in my mind and close my eyes. The next thing I knew, a poem ready to gain permanence on paper. A memory would pop in and I would start writing without stopping.
He was too good."

"Then the lament took place after years of sonnets. The good thing ended. The winter was over. Whether it were a medley of joy or the literal coldness of attachments, the winter was over."

-

-

Hey night, consume me
by morsel and morsel
so I become encapsulated
in your labyrinth and let the
moonlit waters cleanse
the dirt I was blemished
in under the fiery rage.

-