The last time the sea was really my friend and wasn't as treacherous as the one that the ancient mariner faced was when you left me waiting at the seashore, and my tears brought me back to reality. The sea and the cool breeze wasn't just a friend that comforted this loss but allowed me to look over the horizon. To exactly where you once were and our love was the strongest. I wish I never met you and I wish I could stay in the illusion that you loved me, but not everything works the way you want it to. I didn't choose the sea to be my friend. I chose you.
And look what that did.

Pick me up
from the dust filled roads
that you left me in
and my hands will still be as smooth
as silk or cotton that's dried in summer
for they too touched you once
and only once
did you touch them back.

But like men knew to be scared
of fire
My hands knew
To be scared
for one day, you too,
will know
how much I loved you,
Love you
And will continue.

But it'll be too late

In the last maiden
season of spring
mother told me that the jasmine wouldn;t bloom
that year and they didn't.

For father had died
the day before
and the flowers knew how to cry.

So why do they bloom now
when the lover has taken rest
and that one bite on my neck has vanished away
in the air around us.

only mother knows

she who sits on the porch
knitting sweaters and mumbling sounds
to the flowers.
'Queer'.

Concrete kisses
on sunlit flowers
Resemble ghosts of past lovers
and buckets of caramel popcorn.
and everything that is
good and pure.

She,
a porcelain worker.
her hair
dripped in soothing perfume
lies
behind the lonely river
to watch
the skies reach out to her.
and bring
young dazzling memories
of past lovers.

Her joy
is also in the night
that embraces the blazing fire
within
and bring
stars that would never stop shining.
Her ferocious love
away from the sun
is magic in this long night.

In the distance
flowers in her garden
bloom at the sight of the stars
and dance
in the sound of the universe.

You certainly remember,
our first date
when you scribbled a bird
on a rough piece of paper.

Come and see,
the bird has taken flight.

Gone again.

Even the ocean,
after last night's ferociousness
forgot the calm night,
that the moon promised.

The same moon, which with its borrowed light
Left without warning.

The cold shower that came
after last night
and left dew drops on the naked grass;
brought forth a need for
our bodies to come clashing together
like champagne glasses.

Brilliant were their voices.

I have placed these bricks around me
their foundation emerging from my words
Now trying
to dig, right through
two hearts, in one.

When you fall in love
your heart screams
and words just come
and poetry writes itself
oh, what fun.

Home smelt
like jasmine today or like those scented candles near the bedside table
Kept aside in ambition.
Or maybe it was just you.

This world,
I tell you
is unapologetic.
******* hell,
Even garlic isn't free.

gay*
/pronounced gaaaay/*
noun

1. bandages through the body, old turtleneck sweaters, hidden love bites, vexed skin, a body meant for poetry, shivering, cold, like in the night, happy, but afraid, every time someone calls out your name.

2. Shivering again, happy, but afraid, again. *******, Rushed, Dim lights, pleasure without any sound, no moaning, mourning.

3. Lovers without name.

Mum, I thought I escaped the night before meeting him, but now that I think of it, I guess not. This night seems oddly familiar to the day before and to the ones before that. And Mum, I promise, I did nothing to get so acquainted with these nights and yet I can't even bear the sun no more.

Mum, do you think I can still come back and sleep on your lap. I am scared. Scared of losing him. Mum, do you think I can invite him for that special dinner tomorrow, and for once sit together to share a meal.
I suppose father is still mad at me, but I am sure he'll be the fine host he always is, and won't throw us out. It's us now, isn't it funny Mum, how he and I are now us.

Mum, I get scared each time he says that he loves me. Just like you did, over and over again. Until one day.

He would call me,
at 1 and sometimes 2 in the morning.
For our love was a secret,
too bold for the world
so we would whisper
stories in silence
and yet stories they were.

When that last autumn wind
Scattered the tulips,
Even petals
Fell in pairs.

And
Even I who has
no lover
fell in love.

I can categorically list the number of times you have been misused, unheard and trivialized. And as much as I might write about you, you are not a metaphorical representation of the moon or the sun, and my pen doesn't help. You are real flesh and bones, and the real you craves for coffee on Sunday summer mornings and likes sitting alone sometimes. You too crave for ***, with people whom you have just met and you also forgot my birthday once. You are not perfect, of course, you are not perfect, but you are not a gross indecency either. You are truly and finally someone I can love and my love demands to be written down on the most beautiful sheets of paper I own. My love demands to be handwritten on postcards that I have collected over the years for this moment and sent over the distances. But you see my love is also a little selfish and narcissistic, and since we are not in a brilliant and beautiful relationship, you are just another story I can tell myself before going to bed. One of those stories that demand to be told again and again.

My writing and Your kindness depend on my misery and these spectators do not care.

And I die.
And I die.
And I die.

You and I
We
are here to look
and celebrate all eternity
in this deafening silence by the sea

Sometimes we laugh,
and sometimes we cry,
after a momentous celebration
of us making love and of these short odd
Dates.

And when you and I are not close together,
We remember these days and moments
and know that life was always so well
that even moon smiled as it saw the stars
Falling down.

"Would you ever fall in love again?"
Never I said. Never he repeated.
And we fell in love again,
Though completely in vain.
Never again."

Let us sit together at the shoreline today. At 3 am in the morning and do nothing, be nothing, whilst we stare at the city lights fade away. Let us sit close together, holding hands, never letting each other go away. You, my lover, have become my poetry from nothing to things that are now taking shapes, though are still ambiguous.

You, my lover, have become me, like something that belongs to me as much as the moonlight belongs to the sun. So promise me, that you will never ask for it back. And I like the moon will shine and burn and burn and shine. Into nothingness.

Fear only your lover for he can leave marks on your body that you'll be able to see even after he is gone. Fear him because you will find him creeping in whispered memories and in old rustic diaries or on your tongue while spinning yarns of facades. You will be able to see his face and point out every detail while looking at the mirror, so fear him, because he'll leave nothing of you for you after he's gone.

But fear him the most for his words, and for the mystic charm, and for love. Sigh. Fear him, darling, Fear him, for him.

Thank goodness for the world that I cannot love you. Otherwise, what do you do when you fall in love with your brother or with your best friend. You die, or you suffocate yourself and lie. It's a blunder.

But not really, you die, only metaphorically. Which is worse.

And then you meet them, the ones you loved, love,...... and end up with improper goodbyes, empty conversations and the love decays, except not really, because, he, still smiles. And you fall in love again. Except not really.
Not this time.

My heart leaves out no space
For captured princesses
And those fairy tails
Where the prince must marry
A beautiful maiden pretty as the moon

My heart is rustic, too bold to appear
But somewhere in the closet
It is also sincere
And it is love that my heart also knows

Except in a man.

In italicized words, my heart is gay
So is my body
And my lover, of no name.
Who is too shy to appear.

Last night, I saw a clear blue sky
In the darkness of the moon
And my lover said
that blue are just the
color of my eyes.

So, I turned and looked at him
But he looked just the same
And my uncultured heart screamed
That I loved him


Two days later, he rings me and says
That his eyes never saw my bleeding sexuality
And was sorry
But my lover always knew
That I am not okay
And I would let the darkness in
In hope of him.

So much for the night sky
And so much for his love.

But my lover, he has no name.

I feel ashamed
That the heart that I nurtured
Is now in its stunted form of blossoming
Ever so eternal

My hands
reach out
For the arteries and the bleeding veins
Prying, Prodding with force.

I am crippled, unraveled
My sexuality, bleeding.

But so long as I smile as I walk
and nobody notices me bleeding
None shall stop
Or mutter a word.

To muster enough care for my heart to nurture again
For life, for love, for sensuality.
And for days to come.
But only when, someone shall stop.

It is half past one, and you
are more restless than I, when
this day had started, when
you and I met.

The air that parts the window from the curtain, is
colder than I guessed, and now
I fear that I might freeze to death.

And so I move, towards
the closest thing for warmth, and
I find you, wrestling for sleep.

So, I kiss you, gently on your cheeks
And it’s wet now, colder than the rest of you
But there are other things to worry about
Because the gentle peck on your cheek
Wouldn’t even be there, when you wake up.
A message, disappearing, before anyone reads it.

There is much else to be worried about
Like, the coldness, in between you and me
and beneath all of us.

I would,
in the loneliest of the nights.
Light candles from moonlight
and sunlit stars
To celebrate, this loneliness.
And stare.
at The same moon, and the stars
who also, like, lonely lovers,
promise me a glance, and I
in their promise
Would look upon the lovers.
who died, in tranquility.
Gazing at stars and the moon alike.

His soul is a smoked cigarette,
Blackening his bare heart.
Try not to reach for either, I fear
ash falls apart fast.

Her mind is a sober child.
That likes to believe that its drunk.
Wouldn’t she die if she knew
Boring and tiring are hangovers.

They continue to run past parallel
Steady at edges, drunk on the highways.

To let you know
Of weird things:
In those inexplicable rainy days,
Dates are celebrated with coffee alone
And sometimes with hot chocolate or tea.
Poetry, Books and something warm would do just fine too.

While talking about this weird love
where lies the first kiss that you promised?
and the gifts that lie in secrecy
I want them all fast and here
Before you darling, break free.

So let us beneath this lasting rain,
Live the only life we saw.
And wake up drenched in tears knowing
That we still lie all alone.

It is an interesting life we live
Dying for facades.
Only we live.