Madame Blaine isn't happy.

Every night his apparitions appear
and they're getting darer by the day
(sorry, by the night).

Her fault she didn't tell him to go
the first few days on the southern window
rather she felt bad as he stood out there
thought it better to offer him chair.

His hesitation stoked her kindness
not much she would lose if sat face to face
recapitulating life they were together
barring the first few spent talking the weather.

Once in the room he gave her his ears
(or so it seemed)
as she talked of loneliness with hint of tears
blinking and nodding an occasional sigh
but not once offering a courtesy of reply.

He would sit unobtrusive in the gentlest manner
till his proposal last night dropped the sky on her
(sorry, the ceiling)
the first words he spoke shattered her peace

May I Diane, offer you a kiss?

She fumbled to decide an aye or a nay
silence was all her voice could say
the apparition rose to grab the moment
reading in her muteness a loud consent.

Since then she is wondering if she can boast
of having been kissed by one now a ghost
or hide within her as an indelible shame
an indulgence that could earn her bad name.

Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.

Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.

Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.

We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.

Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.

We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.

And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.

a funny game i wanted to play with me

writing poem within mouth holding
a seed of blackberry.

the fruit was fleshy sweet
till tongue exposed its bone
staled, made it insipid,
as if, was never grown.

spit it out i could not do
that seed utterly dry
for i had given word to you
a poem to write must try.

as i thought up cutish rhyme
that must pleasure fetch
****** grew the seed with time
my mouth was messy wretch.

my tongue was thick of blue
too intense was my plight
but i had given word to you
must hold till end of write.

it's over now this awkward game
what a relief to throw it out
and never again shall i write a poem
with a blackberry seed in mouth.

your behavior is ******, she writes to him,
you're a boar, without a cure,

my good ant Anna often asks me,
how the hail i except you,

she says you belong to that banned of men
that effect a woman's life badly

she also suspects you of elicit affairs
goes on to ad you are to me not fare
and we too don't make a good pare

its about time we go our own weigh
since we don't feet each other at all.

i'm sorry though
i had to pain you this heartful later

but bitter swoon than letter.

p.s. thank god i mate the man who scares and laughs me more than you.

Her wails rent the air

O God how unfair you are
to have snatched him from me
the only man that truly cared
never treated me badly.

Without him is a life to grieve
empty meaningless
take me too O God relieve
this pain of no redress!

Shouldn't we bring a costly cot
of mahogany or such wood
asked the men what was her thought
about carrying her man so good.

Shouldn't the pyre be of sandalwood
the fuel a pure ghee
your husband ma'am was a man too good
to be burned ordinarily.

She paused a while frowning dark
a shadow passed her face
a hint of wince made its mark
a pall of uneasiness.

He's gone to never return
the onus is now on me
to run the days with meager earn
and not spend wastefully.

ordinary wood would burn as good
kerosene would do well
prudence demands not one should
be lavish in funeral.