Voice notes of a friend,
borrowed advice—
To my ear,
from their therapist,
in-the-flesh and
certified.
I assure them I’m fine.
I do well enough
with second-hand therapy
and my counsellor, AI.
“The future is here”
and most days,
it suffices.

Could it be tunnel vision?
—I wonder,
as I see
they are running.
He kisses the hand
he’s already holding.
I could melt.
Way better than fiction—
Real life romance.

Could it be tunnel vision though?
—I wonder again, on the bus,
as I see
she’s shifting
her foot nervously—
and in a rare sight:
A sudden feet-hug,
his reaching hers,
containing and calming.

Could it be tunnel vision?
Or just a sweet foreshadowing?

It was cold in your dorm.
I choked on my silences.
I felt unwelcome,
and briefly— desired.

You walked me to the stop,
Said I was almost running—
As I waited for my bus,
the plastic bench felt cozier.

I thought you seem familiar—

I don’t know if remember you,

From another lifetime,

Where you also let me down—


                                        Just  gentler.

It’s so messed up that every lover
I ever entertained,
After the hurricane of you,
Had to carry an unfair ungodly tax—
The burden of your pain.
Crashing soul-markets,
Until I fully exorcised
The sole idea of your existence.
Thank God you fully exited my body—
For It wasn’t sustainable
In any lover’s economy.

Maybe no one would get my essence
Like I do. Even after many tries.
Is that pretentiously narcissistic?
or just deep self-awareness?

A word after more words,
Creates other dimensions.
A whole new structure,
Changing entire generations,
Built for different intentions.
Persuading,
Or Emotional expression.
Also for trickier purposes —
Like plain manipulation.
Of an individual,
Or perhaps a huge nation.
So take precautions.
As this is a cautionary tale.
Since you are building,
Each line of yours
can either shape or break.
After all,
Here,
we all are
What In my mind
I like to call:
“Word Architects”

Turns out,
I’m a talented repairman.
A messed-up wall?
I’ll fix that patch,
and find the perfect paint,
to colour-match.
A misunderstanding?
I’ll shape the perfect situation,
So It can be flawlessly justified.
Yes. I’m a great repairman.
Because after all—
I’m nothing,
but a destructive tenant,
In the flexible lease,
of your heart.

My mother just told me
I’m constantly ‘a slave’ of my own words.
And I have to agree with her.
I can’t seem to ‘own my silences’—
as she so smartly puts it.
I know, I know.
I should ponder on
such valuable insight— yup.
Yet to me…
that was just short for:
 ‘You should shut up’

I missed that call.
And I knew
It was for the better.
You weren’t up
To anything good.
I knew
answering
wouldn’t lead me
to anything good.
And I wish It was
That thought—
the
Impeding,
rational force
The reason
for not
picking up,
But sweetheart,
honestly?
It was 3 am,
I was not that
mentally strong;
I just wasn’t
Awake.

My brain keeps rotting
But I just don’t care.
the longer I scroll
The more chances I get
Of catching a glimpse
Of your beautiful face

Sundays are made for God and for poetry.
For they both can see us fully through.

Maybe I'll be an eternal nomad,
Since my only home is in your arms.

A lo mejor sere una eterna nómada,
porque mi único hogar esta en tus brazos.

It’s a Sunday Morning where I am,
Lying warmly in bed.
It’s time to get my coffee
and catch a brief glimpse—
Through my small virtual window

I get to see,
A lot of different Saturdays
Happy faces in familiar supercuts,
Montages of their laughter,
No trace of sorrow or loss.

Everything is better in spring.
And the hearts I miss—
They seem happier in their spring.

Grateful I got this vibrant collage;
And more grateful still,
Summer’s sprinting towards me,
among the sun and joy, I’ll be.

Counting the long,
And lonely weeks
Until I’ll get to be
(Smiling)
on the other side of the screen.

Have I left it too open, my window
For you to see the inside?
—A room, full of thoughts,
Crafted by my spiralling mind;
A bed, full of love,
Overflowing,
from an oversharing heart

Would you go inside?
Would you ran far?

Tbh I left the curtain half drawn

I know a way to alter space and time—
Open a portal between our worlds.
It’s a simple eight-word code:
‘Hey, I miss you, how have you been?’

I hovered above us
Trying to capture the whole scene
Legs trying not to shiver
While you’re planting kisses,
exploring soft, uncharted skin.
Out-of-body experience,
Floating right there,
I envied myself for a second,
But your anchor-like hands
Managed to drag me down there
Eyes meet again
Making me face them
My nonsensical thoughts—
My fear, my desire to stay—
The closeness of my thighs
To your lips.

In my headphones
’My favourite faded fantasy’
By Damien Rice plays—
Spare souls— one or two broken hearts
and Me, once again,
Waiting for a bus,
to take us away.
Flickering lights,
And 2 am’s old friend,
Cold.. so cold.
In between a heavy silence,
And pity stares,
I can’t help but compare,
Peacefully silent, you
warm and sound asleep
In your room,
A 5-min walk,
right around the corner.

You were just a cold-blooded visitor
Experiencing the warmer microclimate
Of my heart

I strip myself.

Bones, soul and flesh.

I got on the scale. Check.

I’m way past my ideal weight— again.

I guess no amount of exercise

Or calorie-deficit diet would do

Because I didn’t account for

how many calories memories use.

Well, since I’m in no heart-diet,

I can afford to have a few—

So go on,

Add some extra kilograms to the soul.

Why should I know

Why the sky is blue ?

Why can’t I just enjoy the sunny day?

Walking past a building
Being built,
As I type this.
I wonder—
Is some core memory
There,
Waiting for me?

I’m stuck in my bedroom.
There’s a whole in the wall.
That’s figurative speech,
Of course.
The wall is my heart.
I’m watching another show.
It’s about the life of some girls—
I’m trying so desperately to relate.
After some episodes, I finally succeed.
Somehow I make this about me too.
Now I’m imagining how my own life
Would play out for the masses.
Would I be a fan favourite?
Would he be the villain?
Would I be?

I stop.
I REALIZE—
I’m not that interesting.

Just perfectly,
randomly,
average,

             me.

I want to live,

Not just in my scripted mind scenes,

I actually want to live.

call it improv, taking a chance,

Whatever—

I want to be here.

Could you help me?

Get me off my head,

Ground me, pull me near

Bring one of those moments

That sweeps me off my feet

Don’t let me think about it.

Don’t let me ruin it.

Just let me be in it.

No, I am not ready.

But I am real.

And I am here.

trying to get a little dopamine—
In somebody’s lap.

Flashbacks.
Shivering.

Hands,
        hands,
              hands.

Remarkably resilient
You vowed to stay dormant
There weren’t any spores
But your gentle caresses
spreading it by touch
You kept me in the dark
The tears moisturised it
So it continued to grow,
It thrived

Love moulding
All over my soul

Love, moulding
All over my soul

Let the light in

Let the air in

“Bodies are bodies and bodies will touch”,

— Inviting and warm, a set, themed as a house—

Same role to play, a different guest star,

Bodies are bodies and bodies will touch,

— Cheers of the crowd. It’s a wrap, credits roll. —

Hoovering gatherings,
mind miles away,
I have got
I have the longing,
weakening curse.  

It’s in my veins, makes my blood flow.

Pleasantries, nods,
Laughter becomes background noise.
Such a waste of present.
And still I can’t stop:

What if it was better before?

Self sabotaging makes a home
in my bones

Why I keep ruining it all?

Why am I trapped in this loop?

What is the lesson I need and refuse to be taught?

As I stood there,
cleaning my closet,
In the middle of a bunch of lovely trinkets—
I realised, I had baggage.
A lot of it. It wasn’t just stuff.

It wasn’t just an old sweater,
—It was the smell of him.
And perhaps the lovely necklace
that reminded me of school—
Or the cutest folded letter I forgot
Someone gave me, years ago..

How could I let go?

But it was moving day.

Boxes weren’t that large to fit everything.

I had to choose.

Which ones would stay..


               And which….  

                          
                              I had to let go.

I know my parents’ reason of concern.
What could they have done?
What could they have said?
It’s no one fault,
There’s no one to blame.
Nostalgia was just
their daughter’s best friend.

We are late-bloomers,
If you will.
We’ll get there.
Eventually,
A little off? Yes,
Still, In time.
No rush.
Don’t be scared.
The house, the kids,
The job, the love.
We’ll get there.
We’ve been here.
We are just late bloomers,
trust the process,
We’ll be okay,
I just know.

To be just a face in somebody’s yearbook,
tenderly remembered by some eyes,
or maybe.. softly forgotten.

To be a passing stranger in the street,
Filling the background as if following
The imaginary script of someone else’s life.

—Coexisting in pages, or between the lines,
of multiple, existing storylines—

Playing the loyal friend sometimes;
The bubbly crush or the terrible villain
once or twice.

Whatever the role..
..we end up just lingering.

..craving.. desiring.. that funny, ephemeral feeling.

We end up just
    lingering,
          Yearning,
             Daydreaming,

to be part of
A day, a page.
A chapter, a year.