Life does not consist
In the abundance of possessions.

Nor Love
In the abundance of words.

I just realized
    that all I write about is you.

But all that comes out is a snippet of verse.

You probably saw her sometime, but
Didn't spare her more than a second look,
Demure girl, purple kurta-white salwar,
Quite routine, nothing out of the books.

Oh but I saw her, the true her,
Slender hands controlling a sturdy Enfield,
Salwar flapping wildly, freely against the wind.
Must admit, I couldn't stop looking!

We would mark our places-

Our flower shop,
Our cheesecake,
Our café,
Our frozen yogurt,
Our secret spot,

We would, without a thought,
Childishly decorate,
Build landmarks; but now
When it's time to separate,

I realize, as we stare
Ruefully at one another,
That we marked not only places,
But ended up coloring each other-

~ Irreversibly ~

Do it now,
Light a match, set my heart aflame,
The wait is too slow, love,
I need an end to this game,
Where i know the hopes
Are bleak for my victory,
So do it swiftly in one go,
Light a match and burn away this agony.

My mister is so delusional,
Pompously ranting of forbidden flames,
And secret lovers.
Oh wait till I tell him with a bow
"Thy missus is dirtier than thou",
And watch his innocent face
Change a million colors.

Start writing
the words will follow

Start asking
the answers will come

Start loving
let it change your heart

Fill the page. Fill the blanks. Love inconveniently.


Just start.

Writing about him
Is an addiction
That I convince myself
Is in remission,
But my heart knowingly
Sees through the deception.

Writing about him
Is an undying compulsion,
Just like loving him is.