Life is easy for
those who live
with eyes closed,
lips pursed,
arms clasped to the chest,
with the heart carefully
caged within the
prison of their bones-
with brisk steps and
quick glances,
measured smiles
and calculated giggles,
fine sensibilities trickling
off their bodies like
unsolicited teardrops,
Pages scribbled on, crumpled
and tossed into bins,
words unfinished and unsaid
that creep slowly into
oblivion.
Brave are they,
who let their hearts
be warmed by the
naked flames of passion,
and when burnt,
stretch their palms out and
let the rain wash
their scars away.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
I hate verification codes.
What a mere cluster of alphabets
and numbers that
hold no existence anywhere
but a screen. So ephemeral. A
mere cluster of randomly
chosen letters that are so
utterly incapable of
holding the profundity of meaning,
incapable of making our lips twist and turn and
press against each other,
incapable of
reminding us of memories so fond,
of kisses and breathlessness,
incapable of making it’s way
to the yellowed pages of a diary or
old letters that speak of love
and longing, a cluster of letters
incapable of holding
within itself the power of
expression, the power
to cage the agonies and beauties of the
world and it’s abstracts,
of memories and moments,
of feelings so covert or not so,
incapable of giving
shape to everything that exists, or
everything that appears to,
a cluster of letters than can hardly
take the beautiful and powerful form
of ‘words’ and hence
majestically falling short
of giving life and lending our hearts
the profundity of catharsis.
And yet powerful enough
to validate or not, the verity of
us being
human.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
I quit smoking.
A lot like I quit you a few days back.
I still remember the day you
held my fingers and slipped one of your
king-sizes between them; lighted it
as I watched you
in awe. You asked me to
breathe it in. In
silent acquiescence
I closed my eyes and
felt the cool air crawl down my
throat into my lungs;
charging my nerves like you did.
Days after you left, the same
breath didn’t seem so nice anymore.
I remember how you taught me
the interplay of light and shadow
with my fingers, and watched me
with affectionate pride
as I killed myself slowly with
every whiff.
That night as we lay in my bed,
our naked bodies intertwined, you
taught me how to
blow rings of smoke.
I smiled, my lips
and finger tips stained
with bits of you and the nicotine.
I tried so hard to let myself
be sullied by your vices.
Maybe then you would
have loved me. Maybe
a little more.
Days after you left
I still used to puff out
smoke rings like prayers,
ardently waiting for you to
follow the traces of nicotine that
wafted in the air and
come back to me.
You never did,
so I snubbed my last cigarette
into the ash tray
and swore to not crave for it
again. I don’t crave for it
anymore.
I don’t crave for you either.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC