I stood on the roof with inglorious intentions, looking around shakily for someone to stop me.
But no one came.

I stepped up onto the ledge and waited, pleading silently, desperately, for someone to save me.
I waited a few minutes.
But again, no one came.

I jumped off the building.
Falling, I still hoped someone could swoop in or fly up to save me.
I knew there could be no such person. And to my aid no one came.

I plummeted down and hit the ground as a pain swelled in my head suddenly and everything harshly faded to black.
My body lay there waiting to be seen, discovered by anyone.
It was too late for me to be saved.
But finally someone came.

Yes, we've met before,
on a chilly night in November.

I remember the taste of you so vividly...
it almost kills me.

The pinkish liquid strayed down the side of the bottle I kept it in, trying desperately for an escape just the same as I.

I didn't drink to destroy the loneliness of this torn heart, but instead to feel better about what was happening outside my bedroom door.

Each night I wondered why I was ever born if I am not wanted, and I fear I may never know the true answer.

The house is barely ever silent anymore, on the rare occasions it is, it is only me. Atleast aside from those unnerving silences right around each tense moment hanging in the air.

The atmosphere here is full of anger and in my case, fear.
I want to leave but I know that right now I cannot do so.

I eye the hidden drink as it calls to me from its place. I can no longer resist. This drink could be my new savior, because I do not know how much more severing my skin can take.

Even now the opening of flesh must be plotted out carefully and precisely at the right time, or else it may be found and another night of fear may ensue.

Tears flood out so easily now but the alcohol seems to hinder them.

This drink, I know, will destroy me in the end. But I always knew I'd amount to nothing more.

The way it does nothing at all to "fix me" or erase all my painful memories makes me dislike it heavily...
Yet at the same time, it could be my new and improved home.

Moon dust in your lungs
Stars in your eyes
You are a child of the cosmos
A ruler of the skies

Nebulas and constellations, created
With the sparks between us
If your eyes can't catch the vastness
Look up to the sky and ponder

As infinite as it is
My love will always
Be more.

A thousand years hence, we lose our identity.
Never did a genius come for rescue activity.
Never had seen the world since the aftermath,
That deprived us of fresh air to breathe.

At some point of time did our world collapse,
With the forces of nature, burried as corpse,
Except the Dome of a burried temple, yet to be filled,
With a holy Trishul over it - so got another temple built-
The only clue left for our deliverance,
But became the means of worship for the masses.

Clashing with misfortune, nothingness is what we gained,
No one, better than us, can bear the pain,
Of being burried deep under,
Above which people now walk by, cars rush over.

Dreaming a barren hope for an excavation,
With the likes of Mohenjo-daro, Harappan civilization.
Ready to wait for thousand years more,
For the fruit of patience cannot be sour,
That will one day discover a long-lost heritage,
Revealing the descendent of an emerging human race.

When she walks into your kitchen crying,
put down your half scrubbed ***,
turn off the faucet,
wipe the water off of your hands with a white dish towel.
Like her eyes are trying to dry themselves on her pale cheeks.

You wrap your arms around her
and let her cry into your hair.
You feel like a mother
comforting a child who has just lost their favorite stuffed toy.


Her grandfather just passed away,
and this is the first time she has left her house since that night.
The night she couldn't drive fast enough to say goodbye.

You don't wipe the tear from her jaw line.

You're afraid your water wrinkled fingers
will remind her
of him.

Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.

Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.

I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.

It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.