We have our timezones.
You have lit my nights
with oil lamps,
and scribbled words,
dripping ink,
bright blue circular, circumventing words.

I have glistened your days,
with sunshine,
and the smell of rain,
with sprinkles of cool
breeze showering on you.

My candles and rays,
are tip toeing out of sight,
I fall short of noticing them,
(partly because work kills me)
but more so,
because you have made
them seamless,
and thriving.

My pages,
do not boast of love,
or affection,
or any of that miserable
writing,
they screams passion,
they rip into anger
and courage,
belief,
belief you sewed into me,
with your gentle hands,
fidgeting and seeking.

And your eyes,
do not burn from the sunshine,
they glow,
and stare into the depths,
I see in you.
I know you hate the rain,
so mine doesn’t actually come down on you,
it lingers with its scent teasing you.
The cold breeze doesn’t
suffocate your breath,
it travels through
your body- within your veins,
it is breath.

We have our timezones,
but we meet at the horizon.

I’m a ghost
as I wander around the house

you see me when you look in the mirror
I am the ghost of your past
the mirror knows me through and through
precisely why it doesn’t reflect you
It doesn’t know you
it has prejudices now
it knows the hand that had slithered down its body and slyly smiled
it knows the reflection that had carved itself
it knows designed perfection.
Now
you decay in a sea with similar fish
you were hit by a wave that you never saw coming
a storm that brought you down
on footsteps
leading to entropy
and you tumbled
down.

her fingers tenderly feel
the alphabets on the mail
dusty from lying in the letter box

she was away these two months
and now is back to a home
cobwebbed in cold silence

crawls up her eyes
a terrifying tear

this day last year

*he was here

White pages
stained and blemished
Once ******
now yellowed with age

Passionate words
blurred and faded
by tears
long since dried

Thin lines
holding memories
of kisses, soft touches
and pleading eyes

Paper treasures
Printed gems
Buried
by a sea of years

No one knows
why they are kept
locked away
in a cherished nook

Until they are held
by trembling hands
on lonely nights
when old hearts ache

Sometimes, rarely often,
I lie awake, awake at night.
I wonder, wander, ponder,
The theme of you and I.

Though my soul blooms sick,
With ever lasting, lasting doubt,
I try to find, fend, comprehend,
Just how I'll go without.

You and I, such doomed hope,
This play of such, such cruelty.
Fate molded, melded, welded,
I to you and you to me.

Through scenes of flawed perfection,
We dance, dance and sigh.
Still flitting, flaunting, wanting,
Our freedom and the sky.