love's a distant relative
dropping in uninvited
murmuring condolences for a girl I thought I buried away
eons ago.

If love were a flower, would she bloom wild from the recesses of my soul?
If love were a jigsaw, would she craft the shards to heal me whole?

If love were a sapling, would she root, in soil and rain to be a mighty tree?
If love were a cloud, would her invigorating elixir breathe new life into me?
                                        
If love were fire, would she char my insides and from the ashes birth a phoenix?
If love were a tsunami, would plunging headfirst be worth the risk?

If love were a Volcano, would it erupt violently, then subside into dormancy?
If love were a Desert, would it’s heat drive away travelers, but staying reward sanctuary?

If love were a River, would it harbor my life towards another direction?
If love were the sun, would it pull me closer just to watch me burn?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
hearts of gold, never to rust.

swallowtails aloft, flutterings better dead,
dampened by years of love left unsaid.

box of promises, vials of lies,
waves crashing within ocean eyes.

bloodied wrists, a scarlet letter
sealed envelope, unposted endeavour

eternal fairytale, lover and her muse,
destined to love yet scared to lose.

wilted bouquets, abandoned gardens,
memories burn while resolves harden.

etched in stars, writ in stone,
identity crisis, fate unknown.

Life's canvas, shades of grey,
dreams crumpled, hope led astray

stairways to Eris, rising only to fall
Lone poetess loving her Wonderwall

To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

childhood was                                                      teenage is
empty schoolbags                                          suitcases full of textbooks
full tummies                                                   empty stomachs
empty heads                                                   overstuffed brains
board games                                                   board exams
hours of tic-tac-toe                                         hours of texting
2 minute fights                                               2 minute friendships
too many questions                                       too many answers
wanting to grow up                                       wanting to go back

love is what if-

love, what is if?

what if love is....

what is love if;

is love what if ?

This is the sound of
A thousand breaking hearts and
Each of them is mine.

found a guy who wont buy flowers
but is growing roses for me

He's staring intently
                                                  at the task in hand
incomplete masterpiece
                                                 outlined (a deep black)
bitten lip;
                                                 - out of focus
I adoring His own
                                              magnum opus
hands;
ache to trace
                                             sharp jawline; a
defined collarbone-
                                            ridges and valleys
…..Gravitating back
                                           he holds it up for approval
dimpled smile;
                                               breaking dawn

                            "Perfect"
                     (hear myself whisper)
closer now, frozen tide
                                             a whiff of the ocean
                        tsunamis in my heart ; waves crashing

          (but I wasnt talking about the sketch)

Once he told me
"loving you is like breathing
how can i stop?"

and now hes holding his breath.

1  But i'm just so done
8  With life. I can't wait
0  around to be some hero.
0  I'd rather be a photo
2  On the mantelpiece. Too
7   Scared to even
3   Try and hope to be
8  better. i won't be great
2  someday. Nothing i can do
5  to help me survive
5  hell why am i even alive..

Your fingers trace my skin
and I forget what
I was going to
say
next...