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.

"you were a parade of red flags but I screamed colour blind from the rooftops.
you see,
scarlet is the colour of both love and betrayal."

The chapters you live in are pages I visit often
The novel of my life is indexed by your name.
Dog eared, bookmarked, frayed at the edges
Memories I keep (re)turning to
Some shabbily hastily taped back
Ripped out in fury, the need to forget
All consuming
And yet
I put them back
Slowly
Deliberately
Smoothing out the wrinkles
Relishing the agony to remember
To cherish the love not too long ago
The roses you gave me
Pressed against these pages
sweetness wafting
pervading my senses
mingling with a whiff of your salty aftertaste
******* the pages like they conceal
fragments of you within their folds
forever on my bedside table and in my dreams
you reappear,
the protagonist of a story that never belonged to you.

I was your Venus when you were  my Sun,
Pulling me closer just to watch me burn.

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..

You smell like riptides upon a fathomless sea, elusive waves that never cross, beckoning me closer.

You smell of exotic beaches on travel catalogues; the ones unexplored, untouched, unique. The ones not treaded upon, inviting and innocent.

You smell like the lighthouses on deserted rocks, leading me home, guiding me safely to shore and to you, slighting the storms; unwavering, trustworthy.

You smell like the seaside of my childhood; familiar, nostalgic, the ones I can traverse with my eyes closed. Land I trust and know like the back of our hands entwined.

                       You smell like salt and the ocean
                          Love upon the unending sea
                    Scents of cinnamon, fire, setting suns
                          You smell like home to me.

love is painful. love is endless waiting for someone to turn back when you too, are walking away. or trying, at least. but what is relief without knowing how pain chokes your breath?

love doesn't know what he wants.
love is confusion and a pendulum of emotions. Love doesn't want to hurt people, but when it comes to me, love forgets that my heart bleeds too.

is love unrequited? maybe. maybe I don't want to accept it. maybe love loves someone else's smile now. maybe love's heart doesn't drop when he sees me in class, maybe love ignores what his heart is whispering.

maybe love will see this and relive his scrapbook of us. maybe love will confront the right people. or maybe he will scroll past this.

unrequited love is painful, but being drawn in and left is **** near-apocalyptic. if nothing else, we made good breakup poetry.

maybe love lacks courage. maybe that's an easier excuse for me to accept. it is far easier to imagine a heart that cowers from the truth rather than one whose truth I don't recognise. is it time to walk away without looking back? I just want to lie to myself tonight. but then again, can you blame me?

the colour of betrayal far outshines Vantablack
its depth is a cumulus cloud of chaos and agony
tinged with the wails of a wilting wallflower
bloodied scarlet, a glimmer of unrequited love
purple promises writ into skin, bruised and broken

time will grain your polaroids
and bury your touch
unloving you

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

The reason so many children are born in November

2. Archies/ Hallmark marketing strategy.

3. A day that will never ever meet your expectations.

4. when love is in the air but you're ALWAYS ALWAYS breathing a different air.

5. The ultimate reason to buy yourself chocolates and throw a pity party

6. A day when single people will only see couples walking hand in hand; God's Magnum Opus hell of a psychology experiment.

I know how to love and I know how to lose,
I know how its best sometimes to not choose.
I know how to leave and I know how to stay,
I know how some people mean more than they say.
I know how to forget and I know how to forgive,
I know how its good to live and let live.
I know how to hide and I know how to show,
I know when it's best to just let go.
I know how to rise and I know how to fall,
Heaven bless me but I still dont know all.

love is what if-

love, what is if?

what if love is....

what is love if;

is love what if ?

writing your name with my own hands
in the 'Absent' column on the blackboard
chalk and tears; unpredictable fears
you're still not here.