I'm not the type to miss people when I leave,
Or think about them when I'm gone.

But I met you.

And suddenly,
I'm starting to think that I might just miss you when I leave.

And it sticks like a thorn in my side,
To know that I too, can feel such sorrow.

A.C

Darling,
                          plait my hair with the silk of your fingers, weave
                          my locks to a mellifluous status.
                                                      
                                                            Darling,*
     caress my face as though it is
worthy of your notice,  touch me like no
     one else can.

And Beloved?
              You will never die
  Because I will preserve you perfectly
                     In my ink.

They say it's cliché,  writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.

Falling, soaring, dropping
away from you and the warmth of your
eyes.
I can't afford kindness, compassion's too
costly,
So spare me the trouble, the debt, the owing
and retreat.