The black keys on the piano,
sung the melancholy song
that only I remembered,
along the sound of the kiss
on her voluptuous lips,
under the jittery aura of
The moon, that darkishly
lighted the trees of my lawn,
where I spent alone with her
fading memories, with the
her dried black rose,
smashed within her letters...

Sepia sheets of notes read
the blues, that rested over
corroded strings of an old
guitar with petals of roses
that once used to heal the
wet coasts of the eyes and
an unfulfilled dream of a
firm embrace, stays dusty
at the corner of my vacant
room with the memories of
the blue notes like an old,
obscured calligraphy with
the dry roses, murmuring
the tales of an old love,
penned on bits of old
and dusty sepia sheets...

To the graves, follow the roses
for the deceased, for the soul
to smile. yet it rots beneath
the mud, under the footsteps
of lives, or for lilies to
sprout sometime. Maybe for
a bug to sleep and dream
the dreams, once the dead,
wept blood and left behind.

She followed me to my grave,
to my dreams, calligraphed
on the gravestones, or
to the buried memories where,
innocent smiles unsmiled,
the head bowed to hide the
dripping tears, yet the lips,
shamed and exercised to smile.

The bug flew to her hair knot,
and pollinated her with
the shades of the dreams.
She is the painting to my
last alive grayscale dream.
Might she be the rose, that
will follow me to my verge.
Might she resurrect me and
lend me a hand. I wish
to smile and not sham. huh!
Dreams are mortal. love is not.
Might her love someday,
give my lips a reason,
to again painlessly smile...
Can I be happy please?

With every steps walked,
Every lips that kissed,
Every years that passed,
Every foot steps walked,
Every friendships made,
Every love that proposed,
Every thoughts that raced,
Every futile tears shed,

One smiles after all, as
one grew old, and the
robes smelt nursing homes,
one realized, from life,

No rose is special, if
one has bouquet full of it...

Strolling upon the dark pavements,
under the melancholy aura of The Moon,
I wander what I fear deep within me.
Is it the darkness of my soul? or is it,
the weight of the fear or the pain of
either my close ones or my friends,
or the shared stories of many more.
Is it only me with racing thoughts?
Or I race on someone's mind too?
I think not. They laugh, They grin,
Where as I drink the red off of
my own unhealed scars and
some of it spills on my small and
hardbound old sepia sheets as poetry...

Lost pieces from my heart,
and the green dry veins,
quelled  under painkillers,
yet sedated with pain itself,
by the golden blood of liquor
and the ash smokes with
the shattered whisky glass
on the marble floor, waiting
for her to wash the blood
off my feet, but to gift some,
on my pale and dry lips...

Bitter promises made with the
trembling hands that shook,
smiled with lips and teeth,
yet heart beating the eyes
to flood the parched coasts
and love was sealed with
a bond of time, some few
months to which we dealt.
Funny and shameless a
story to many, Yet dark
and sweet it is to us, cuz
some stories mean to be
only understood by some.
weeping eyes were happy
the day we both confessed,
but heart broke everytime
to recall the remaining time.

The months passed today,
the time dealt, ended.
But the hands that dealt,
didn't sign off today.
A kiss broke the promise
of a break, A new story,
a new pen, set off for,
a new voyage today...

The hungry lips starved for a kiss,
The ***** sour smell inhaled,
The silent mourns heard,
The fingers teased the pelvis,
Sweats scrolled down from
the behind of her ears, and
The moist tongue tickled
the collar bones, The warmth
of her nearness, the touch
of her lovely long fingers,
the husky voice of her heart,
Whispered ' Make Love to me'.
More close I got, The far
her soul tried to escape, as
the innocent little she, had
sufficient enough to fear,
Eager souls waited to merge,

The stars were not beautiful,
Just pale presence of light.
Only a blind knows the
colour of black. She, the
blind lady, bright of love,
Yet, afraid, of the souls
to merge within the
darkness that prevailed.
A story far back from now.
Only there was time,
That might have healed.
Yet in the end, The souls,
have submitted gladly...

Didn't,
Didn't We?
Wake at the dawn?
With a station to start?
Were we not like the trains?
That headed their own ways?
Didn't we speak like them?
through whistles and hastes?
Didn't we share the stories?
Through some open windows?
Didn't we know us just by the
time of a trip side by sides?
Didn't we know our names? cuz
we met everyday on some station?
Wasn't our destinations different?
but Just a pass by on two tracks?
Did we ever crash? No I guess, cuz
we were never on the same tracks.
Did we ever wait? For a coffee?
No, Cuz we all headed for different.
Didn't we see us everyday pass by?
From the start to the end of the day?
Who knew? This day would come?
Same place to go, same track to share,
Same destination to reach,
Same station to leave from,
Same stories to share,
Closed windows opened,
Same air to breath,
Two heart beat,
One heart heard,
Did Love?
Yes...

Untold stories, unheard,
Told stories not understood,
Love felt less, laws overrated,
Skies seen, touched ground more,
Made less roads, followed more,
Thought less, views outstanded.

In The lonely aimless road of mine,
A stranger, showed me another way,
Lovely as The Moon herself,
Eyes distant as the road itself,
Hair as the dancing corn fields,
Took my hands and strolled yet,
I was never a good walker I guess.
My unspoken words, or the
Un cried tears, She never heard.

Fingers distancing themselves,
A hand, starting to let go,
The Moon thats setting,
The corn fields losing colour,
The road cracking, huh!
A tear to fall and vaporize.
Head to be pulled straight,
to be Looked back never again,

Though at the end of my roads,
I will rest on a ***** muds,
Hoping the same stranger to
Kiss me a rebirth, The painter
of the cornfields, the craftsman
who would make more roads
for both of us to walk once more...

Sat on a log of a broken tree
gazing the calm flow of the river
with the peeking Sun light
on the flowing rusty leaves
recalling the times spent,
fights fought, kisses she kissed,
with her half opened dreamy eyes.

I was not dead, Yet never alive.
Atleast not on the present.
My thoughts, that none cared.
Meaningless words to all, Yet
she was the all for me.

Now I sit, staring on the stream,
in solitude with my lost self,
with a vision of someone,
rubbing my fingerprints off of her.

The letters, The roses,
became the grey ashes
from her fireplace.
The chimney smoked
the burnt petals,
Her tears danced on the
clamor of cracking woods
and the memories flew
with the debris.

Yet nothing was changed.
All that burnt that day,
Was her innocent heart.

Soul and blood,
He thought love was.
Compromise, and maturity,
She thought love was.
They, sometimes bled.
Emotions wept,
Practicality laughed.

Eyes, barren as the deserts,
reflecting the melancholy voice
of The Oud, wet as the oasis,
not lies though, yet not wet,
Lips red as blood, spoke of the
bleeding broken heart. Yet once,
A river flown, washing the blood
off her heart, and smothering the
sand storms. still time had a story.
It was just an oasis to her burnt,
dead dreams. The river was on
a valley, watering the red rose,
She once lovingly gave him ...

Streamed down through the memory lane,
with the pages being turned, and the
pictures visioned, that burned the heart,
whose debris, the tears wiped, and the
thoughts being subdued with the
burning end of the last cigarette ...

Never she walked down the lane
to her house across the street, or
smelt the roses on the pavement
that bloomed for love to happen,
or never did she tear a petal for
a guess of an answer, that was
never questioned. She cried,
for regrets, or a feeling of love,
that might never she have felt.

Its the time, that thought of Autumn,
the rusty leaves all over the pavement,
sometimes the rains, that wet them,
And the green park, that turned husky,
Hearts raced, eyes gazed, the pattering
sound of the rain that fell on the leaves,
that muffled the sound of our raging
and crying souls, The eye lids met
shutting the view. Only our exhales
was what we heard. Lips met.
All the pain, forsaken, for a minute.

She never took a ride back home again.
Even our shadows didn't stay apart.
A never ending journey, resumes.
Our palms doesn't ungrip anymore.
Our hearts pounds sync righteously.
Nothing makes me happier than her.

Might not be the same in near time.
Might we sleep in cold without us,
wiping each other's tears, and kissing
its okay. Might not I walk the same road
and ride the train, from the same station,
ever again, Might not she ever perfume
my bed with her aroma. Might not, we
share the long stares and kiss with a smile,
Might all the memories morph to poetry
with my cold heart and bleeding ink,
that will disappear with my demise.
Yet, a memory to be felt living again, that,
She never took a ride back home again.

Last kiss, she said.
One time only, she said.
Just a friend, she said.
Means nothing, she said.
Its the liquor, she said.
Its alright, I said.

A few days past by.

She lay'd on my arms,
with her husky eyes,
staring at mine, with
our hearts close as our lips,
and my arms, dragging her
closer. I whispered.
I love you too. She said.

A few days will pass by.

One last kiss, she'll say.
No more, she'll say.
Near hearts shall whisper
farewell, stay well.
Shall blame the world,
and wish for the near
next life to meet again,
And never, a good bye
to be heard ever again ...

Started with the void, that
wanted to fill, A tug of war,
between our distant souls,
yet close hearts, mourning eyes,
that my towel still remembers,
The hugs, that my shirts remember
for the shades of your's,
as vivid as your eyes. I gazed,
At the skies, and asked,
is this it? A question, she answered,
Yes, It is. Promises kept to us,
stories, that we made, good times
we spent, memories we made,
A tough story, we lived,
encased within my diary,
locked with emotions,
stacked in a closet, for a
new train to be ridden,
and the diary, meant to
never be opened again...

I woke up, I realized,
You were just a dream.
No more tears, could
Make it real. You
were the voice, that
made me cry, Your
lap was the pillows,
that cured my void,
But it was just a dream,
for a little night. But

I was the nightmare,
You ever saw. I am
really not just worthy.
I might have misunderstood,
the reality of life, the
ways of reality. Even
your the lightest actions,
felt mistakes to me,
But it was just things,
That just happened,
Should have happened.
Why couldn't I let go,
I don't know, I was just,
Not worthy, I never
understood. A fool I am.

Might I wet the pillows,
Alone for life, None might
ever hold my hands.
I don't care. I just
want my gravestone to say,
I loved you ...

With all the pain, subdued
under the sixty's of whisky,
For years, being suffered
waiting for you, weeping.
Yet you were there, like
The Aurora, The glamorous
lights of the north, Yet
You refused to be The Sun.
My heart was lit by the
Northern lights, shallow,
yet bright, As it was to me
You. My eyes would never
tire of watching you, till
you rose as The Sun, Now
my eyes, my hands, my heart,
my happiness, my pain,
belongs to only you, But
as the pain also is yours,
It hurts to know someone else
felt it, might be your friend,
or mine, My everything is,
only your's, whats left of me,
What I am, I am your's,
Someday, please be only mine.

Is it strange? that
I don't miss you when
you are far away? but
miss when you sit close?
Is it the subdued fear of
being apart? or is it
the the tension of love?
A feeling that I can't
be without you?
Do you feel the same?
All the questions
I know the answers to,
Yet, am I right?
I don't know, except,

the fact, that we loved,
We gave ourselves us,
gifts that we didn't see
us giving to each other,
A part of memory, never
to be forgotten, Never
to be re liven ...

Mistakes, focused on,
History excavated,
Good times killed,
Bad memories
re lived, pain
re given, re felt,
Might not, I hope
distance the hearts,
beautiful, and same,
broken and patched,
Tears, each other's
eyes saw, that the
lips kissed and
wiped, breaks
such a way, that,
souls may remain at
the poles, but the
hearts, live as
close as they
lived at dawn,
giving each other
a life, they never
pictured. I
just Loved, just
forgot to maintain
whats needed more.
I really really,
Just loved. I
never deserved her,
I am really,
genuinely
sorry ...

Voices inside his head,
sometimes memories,
True, yet deceptive,
futile, sometimes,
flowed as the tides,
on a full moon night
and the shore of her eyes
flooded, broke the gates
of his heart, But,
He never cried, till once,
When her eyes rained
like the monsoons, and
he realized the meaningless
words of his, broke her,
for futile reasons,
He cried. This time not the
pillows, but wet the field
he sat on.

He wanted her to know,
from deep within, that
He Was Sorry...

Her friends told not to give hope,
He's told to be prepared, yet
they closed their eyes,
and dived into the ocean of love.

They never drowned, saved by
The Gods. This time he drowned
but in his own tears, hoping to
drown again, into the same ocean.

A reflection of pain, that
my diary mirrored.
The pain that bled
through the ink,
The tears drops, that
blurred the writings,
The reasons,
rectified,

turned my life for
time unknown,
so words of pain
nullified themselves,
so did my poetry, as
I can't write
without pain.

For, she looked at me,
washed pain all away,
like my eyes once
washed the ink
of my burnt pages...

Her eyes spoke of solitude, of
how she was left in the dark,
cold and haunted, shivering
on strong winds,
Even her towel refused
to wipe her tears.

Again her lips spoke maturity,
how she moved on,
stood up on the same streets
she was left alone, and
smiled with the same lips,
she once moaned with.

But, She, herself spoke love.
A creature so beautiful,
that, The Moon blushes
under her aura, and
The Stars wants to be
the jewelry to her skin,
Where as, all he wanted,
was to be the towel, that
would always wipe,
her tears, for other's sin ...

The heart shattering pain,
She prevailed, the spear of words,
that scarred her heart, reflected
through her eyes and the
melt down eyeliner, Yet
Her eyes wore The Ocean,
and the warmth of blue
burnt her eyes brown, But
still  she never showed the water,
or the autumnly tint of her eyes.

Again her arms opened for him
for a while, and her close grip
showed him a glance of her
deep ocean and the ashes
of her smoldered soul. He gazed.
His tears wet the shoreline,
of her ocean, and kissed her soul
under the bald trees of her
autumnly brown eyes ...

Along with the lonely stroll
In the ocean of broken hearts,
And deep, lovingly desires,
You stumbled upon mine.

Yet in the tiniest span of time,
You embraced it tight, and
kissed to see if it smiled.
It took time, but did smile.

Dark, was the way to love,
and as scary was the nights,
Yet, they held hands, And
soon, stepped into the light.

Her curved smile patched
his scarred heart, while
his pen bled ink, and
the scars spelled poetry ...

A sleepless night, and
his red bloated eyes,
her eyeliner's ink
all over her cheeks,
bursted into a flood
of love within their
starving hearts, and
the eyes were then
speaking love, as the
lips were locked, with his
hands over her shoulders.
teeth crushing her
tender skin, and
the tongue tasted her's,
and his ear's listened
to her soft moans.
Not even her jeans
stopped him from a touch,
or her curves from showing
their grace. Or her sweat
from spreading her aroma.

But still he feared,
the fear, of despair ...

She said she loved.
His friend shook hands.
She said, It was nothing.
She had reasons though.
His heart cried, Yet,
His face showed maturity.

He wrote love poems every morning,
And wet the pillows at night.
He was in love.

Now he, reads depression control,
Drinks whisky, and smiles.

Society calls him matured.

The skies were red, by the
smoke the fireworks exhaled,
enlightened by their glowing beauty
and the hollow silence, filled
by their ambient sounds, on
the night of The Diwali.

Lovers smiled, with hearts,
pounding with delight, holding
the fiery stick, hand above hand,
where as my appetite were
filled with spirits,
and breath full of cigars with
blurry darkness in my eyes.

Time changed, not much though.
You and me, may not celebrate,
But, We are together, This letter,
To let you know, that, Now,
Your curved smile lights my heart,
and your voice fills my silent soul,
erasing the debris,
from my old, burnt soul...

The lustrous, half opened lips
as you sleep, and the husky sound
of your breath, yet charming playfulness
of your fine lined eyes, with your
long, well crafted fingers, dancing
along as you dream of pain,
or of merry moments, where as
my hands lay on your voluptuous curves,
ow so beautiful, the moments,
buried deep, within my broken heart ...

I see dreams, in Your eyes,
My guitar plays the chords,
that resembles Your voice,
The blues sounds sweet
when You hum the notes.

Now you are far from Me,
as My heart bleeds poetry.

I will remember the time,
The time, when We kissed
for the first time, pushed back
against the wooden doors
of My room. The time when
I made Her cry,
and wiped the tears off Her face,
with My towel, and a sorry heart,
The time, when "just friends"
turned "I love You too", along
with a kiss and a tight grip,
The time, when She out of blue,
snatched My collars and kissed Me,
pausing My breath, smiling,
I was confused. Whether to
smile or stay stunned, or
when She called Me by pet names,
even within crowds, I smiled,
It was embarrassing, yet cute.
Ow, What a beautiful time.

Though, with one exception,
We both are flowing with
beautiful ambiance of the time,
but with a destiny towards
"Just a friend". A rare story of Mine,
Where, We chose to be happy,
yet, none with a victory sign ...

The gray skies,
with the silver clouds
rushed towards Me
with the roars they made
when they struck,
I felt as they were,
My friends, As they
reflected My deepest heart,
And the rains fell,
We both cried.

Times changed.
Something within Me changed.
Now the glamorous blue skies
seems to reflect Me.
It was happy like Me.
The birds strolled above,
with a playful delight,
when The Cuckoo sang,
a sweet melody, like,
The Nature seemed to
reflect My mood, My mind.

But still now, The Monsoons come.
When, The Sky cries all the time. When
I sat beside the windows, as my eyes,
were The Monsoon's best friend ever ...

Hardly, ever read a poetry.
Maybe a few, for school classes.
It was always like an array of lines,
only poets might understand.
But I grew up. I realized, that,
I was a fool. It had a man's
deepest sorrows, deepest desires.
An array of lines, too small
for a story, but almost a novel
for a reader to think.
I started to write.

Now I read, I write,
With an emptiness in my heart,
A desire to see one, the one,
I never found, A Poem,
Unique, as the dark stories of mine...

She kept them with Her,
In the deepest of her heart,
where they slept peacefully.
The poems, I wrote her,
The kisses I gave her,
The memories I made her,
The time, I spent with her,
within an envelope, which
in time, torn apart. But
never forgotten. cuz,
She kept them with Her,
In the deepest of Her heart.

Whisky, all on my veins, the
golden liquor, The fine
malted grain spirit, aged in the
oak barrels for years,
The exquisite taste, with an ice,
or two for its anger to calm,
with zests of an orange, with
a lemon peel hooked on the glass,
with the light sip, savouring it
all over the taste buds, But
Its not why the glass is held,
All the times, its not all, Its,
Its about letting go, of which
can't be forgotten, letting go of what,
can't be let gone, most of all,
Burning the affectionate heart,
to debris, never being able to love.....

I write poetry,
Just not for everyone,
to cry, or to laugh,
or to feel for me,
But for myself,
To read them later,
to recall the times,
I was happy, or
In pain, reminding myself,
to look up, and move on.....

As I opened the old wooden windows,
And pulled aside the drapes,
A playful little breeze
made me shiver.

It was dark outside,
With The Sun peeking through the clouds,
And the roads were wet when,
The old memories of You
Flashed from the past, When
You kissed me on that rainy night,
With Your dark swollen wet lips,
And I felt the ambiance of sanctity,
And we were encircled by love,
With a promise of being us forever.

Now the distance of our hearts
are far than ever, And
left broken, As we are just fragmented memories,
That sometimes a dark breeze recalls.....

As You compliment
The barren wine glass
with Your reflection
that it projects, and
it shies to it's curves,
as Your's are the one,
That it portrays, and I
gazed at You, flattering
my eyes, blushing red,
when You smiled and
tucked Your hair behind
the ears, and whispered
the words with Your
polished burgundy lips,
I realized, The almighty
gave me a gift. I
Poured the wine gently,
The glass was still shy,
As it's wine was dull
to Your lips, Then I knew
That, You are,
The craving to me,
That wine,
Will ever be.....

Time slipped off my mind,
So did life and reality.
But as they hanged the lights,
and started planting the
green neons, I recalled time,
Just two days to the
Great Indian festival,
Where I visioned her,
With the red dress,
And the big round ear rings,
Walking the pavements with me.
The lights seemed vibrant,
The breeze smelt catkins,
And the rusty autumn leaves
filled the streets, where
we walked down with hands gripped.
Ow what beautiful a time.

But time ain't going to be the same,
My hands would soon be left free,
My heart torn apart, with blood
filling up her empty soul, As
We would face the time, with
wet eyes and a heavy voice, as
The next time, The lights
would be dimmed, the breeze,
would smell whisky, The rusty leaves,
fill my hair, Where she kissed me,
Under the same tree.....

It was late at night, And
It was dark outside, where
the lights from the train were
flashing and flickering on
the underground walls.
The station arrived,
We were alone.
The empty station walls
were illuminated with
broken, glimmering neons
along with its buzzy sound,
As we were walking down
with our grasped hands
towards the exit on
a shutdown escalator.

It was so silent a time,
Even, our thoughts
could be heard, as
mine was saying
of the station. The station,
Where it all started someday,
ended once for a while,
But will now end soon.
For ever.

We left the station,
Where she went another way,
And I waited for a ride to home,
which never came, But
The streets, the bridge, The trains
were sighing on me. The ones,
I will never arrive, never ride.
Still, the long whistle, will
once more, force me back,
Down the memory lane
As a tear will wash the dust,
off my old shoes, that I will
Never wear again.....