"I mean I don't like you, like that yet." you said,
and went ahead to kiss me and cup my *******.
I have always been that kid who liked everything.
The cold morning breeze, scalding sunshine, brick walls,
burnt soup, inconsistent laughter, English class,
the weird kid in seventh grade who bullied me and
making crosses on my skin with fingernails over mosquito bites. So,
I did not understand it when you said you did not like me.
I wondered, if it was because my nose was too crooked, or my lips too plump or because my hair didn't have a shape?
It's weird because I like you and for all that makes you.
And it is so simple for me,
to appreciate the subtle balding of your head, the shape of your shoulders, the Pinocchio nose of yours or the fact that you are an *******.
I started to like the taste of your skin, the touch of the camera around your neck, your old, fading jeans and the 'know it all' attitude.
I heard your words in poetry when you kept saying,
that I don't know you well enough to like you or love you or to cuddle with you while I slept.
Darling, we both know you never intended me to know you well enough.
You said you liked how I wrote my words, my short haircut and the curves of my body,
but not enough to like me.
So strange, because it was as easy as breathing,
for me to draw masterpieces out of your naked body painted in
the subtle yellow light of an evening.
I haven't felt as worthless, as I did when I spent hours in the night,
loving each inch of you just to hear that
you don't like me, like that.
Darling when I held you, I held you with all the universe in me.
I held you, hoping to mend every broken part of you,
to make disappearing clouds out of everything
that keeps you awake at night.
It was simple to kiss your skin and to like it,
and to like you.
I liked our time, your kisses, and the husky sound of your voice when you said "I don't like you like that"
Maybe it's stupid that I like you,
like it is stupid to like loneliness, mud spots on a favorite clothing or holding my breath under water.
It's stupid to feel
so unbearably off balance while loving someone so emotionally unavailable and
liking it.
It's stupid
and you are a *******
but I like you.
I like you.

Hi love,

What I love the most about this letter is that you might or might never read this. The uncertainty is more comforting to me than knowing what will be. Maybe that is why I am going away from you; maybe that is why I have not and probably will never respond to your messages.

When we first started talking, you promised to give me the last teabag in your backpack that you carry, but you never did. You did give me though – several three AMs’ of not-friends, a night of drenching in the rain and the little room in your mind where I exist. I never understood why I felt so deeply about you, because I never really liked you. My heart broke, each time you left me cold before the sun came up. I cannot explain darling, how it hurt to consider possibilities of this turning into a wonderful magic when in reality, you are only free when you are *****. My beautiful daydream, I do not blame you. Maybe there is beauty that I do not recognize, in falling in love with something that you are supposed to hate.

I will always cherish that one time that you fell asleep for a while with me. You smelled of the soft love we made and sleep. And most of all darling, you smelled of you; how I miss the smell of you. I remember, every time after you left, I would clench onto the sheet and lie down because in a strange way, you smelled of home to me. When I was in college, all my outstation classmates would go home in the vacations and I’d realize that I have no place to call ‘home’, nowhere that I can be at love and peace- that I can call my own. Maybe that is why, I always look for home in the people that I come across. Is it vain to do that? I certainly hope not.

It is hard for me to stay away from you. I always end up soaking up every last minute that you choose to give to me. But this time I need to go, love. I do not have a lot of time to invest in this beautiful world of you, I and heartbreak. I am an ocean-girl, my daydream. And when I love, I love with all of my ocean heart. I am finding it very hard to contain my ocean self in the tiny jars of your twisted words, and half-hearted midnights.

Now that this is the last time that I would communicate with you, let me tell you this embarrassing thing. I spent an hour on an insignificant evening, stalking your mother on Facebook. But then again, I stalk friends of friends of friends, all the time. The reason that I am bringing this up is because while going through her pictures, I found this one photograph of her younger self holding baby-you in her arms and smiling. I had taken a screenshot of that picture and was going to show you and talk about it, but we never met after that so I would like to acknowledge it here. I just want to express that, the photograph was one of the most beautiful things that I have ever come across. The soft light on her skin, her long uncombed hair and the beautiful mix of joy and melancholy in her smile- I looked at that picture for a longtime, overwhelmed. I knew in that moment that I was in utter love with the woman in the photograph. It was surprising how I did not hesitate once to call it love. That photograph for some reason, means more to me.

I hope the pastel drawing of a sunset that I gave you, always makes your heart happy. You really are like a sunset to me. You are always evolving and changing in dark and light shades of your existence. I hope you always find reasons to love every inch that creates you. I also hope that someday, you find someone who you can share a night of peaceful sleep with, someone who paints each breath of yours with miracles and love.

So here it is darling. Here is the end.

So long.

Dear mister ‘I-am-judging-you-for-the-type-of-tea-you-drink’,
I like you.
Maybe you would be comfortable if I didn’t say that I like you, or mention your discrimination for tea or was not the girl who wrote you a poem
But here I am, you. Here I am being the most vulnerable that I can be today.
I realized it last year on another rainy day in June, that I am the most vulnerable when I write poetry.
It was an evening when I sat near a window that sprayed rain water over my face while I wrote
A poem about the coffee I spilled on my bed that morning. Who knew, a mere coffee stain would take me back to war and pencil sharpeners from eighth grade and the kid who sold me two ballpoint pens for ten bucks at a traffic signal?
It would probably make you uncomfortable if I tell you that I recognize the shape of your hands better than mine but here I am, telling you just that.
Dear you,
Today on this rainy 12:42 am, I want you to know that I like how you make smiles without noses.
I like how the scent of your skin reminds me of cold blankets on a rainy night or how the shower smells of body-wash, long after I’m done.
Will you go away, if I tell you
that I want more of you than half-hearted ‘I need you’s and warm, replaceable hugs?
Will you stay, if I say,
that I see dawns with you at seashores and photographs of laughter and cups of tea?
That than searching crowds for perfect misfits- I’d rather make home out of my shaky arms, where I could draw portraits out of charcoal and you could make art of what we have.
Darling, I like you but let’s for now pretend that I don’t.
Let’s pretend I am in it for the temporary thrill and as soon as you leave,
I forget you.
That maybe I have a couple others, who make my heart happy when you are not around,
And you are not more to me than a friendly hookup.
Are you comfortable now?

I broke up with him a while ago. I don't remember if it's been a few weeks, months or years. I just know that I have not talked to him in a long while and I do not want to; I do check his blog at times though, because I'd like to still know that he exists and that, he was real.

He posts jokes and short stories sometimes, about how his ex was all negative things. Maybe he is talking about me or maybe he is talking about — the women he has been with before me. It could be anyone because he is good with pointing out flaws; it's an art I'd say. Or maybe, it's in fashion to label ex's as their negatives... Maybe there is a sense of relief in that. I try to understand but I am not sure if I relate to it because I always find comfort, in the happy memories and in the good in people. I like to stubbornly cling to the sunshine.

When I think about the relationship and him — I accept that there were so many things that were not right, that hurt me. But that is not how I would want to remember him. The time with him had alternate shades of light and deep blue — facets that were so bright, that it would brighten up all my existence. A couple of days of waking up next to him were so sublime, I still think of it and smile. I loved the way he blinked, the way he childishly frowned and that one time that he read to me — one of my favorite authors. He was bright and imaginative. He found stories in all the ordinary occurings around him; he was a beautiful, storyteller. I found it adorable how particular he was about brushing twice, and how organized he kept everything that belonged to him.

He was endless in the way he existed in my life. And even though I was not a memory, happy enough to him— he'll always exist in the light and dark blue corners of my mind.

Two of my closest friends in this world are — a cooing, white-grey pigeon that always sat outside my bathroom window, who I started out being scared of but eventually made friends with and — the rough textured, brown brick wall that has comforted and kept me company many a time, at a cafe that I frequent to.

My world is made up of not only people but coral evening skies, a cup in my kitchen rack that says "Good things are going to happen.", the shy lizard that I sometimes come across, cold-pressed mango juice and many little things that, I have started to grow fond of in my existence.

In the previous year I have had a million laughs, good amount of cry, came to terms with my mental illnesses, met a bunch of interesting people and also made some glorious mistakes. It's been a great time!

I am just utterly in love with this magnificent world and this magically, abstract life that I have. Reaching 20 years is not very different than reaching 19 or 18 — just more memories (good ones and the ones that make you cringe), couple of accidentally broken mugs and more friendly pigeons!

I am grateful and excited to spend more time discovering little bits of this world and myself, and to have more hours in this universe of sparkle. Here is to the future sunrises, hugs, uncountable cups of tea, memorable conversations and bright, uncontainable gladness!

So instead of searching for the better self, the greener grass or the balance — let's for once, embrace the glorious mess that we are. Maybe then we would find that, all this time that you were looking for happiness — happiness was looking for you.

The green shirt that is lying in a pile with my other clothes, does not look green to me anymore. I wore it once and washed it about five times because I always forget where I toss it.

As I sit here in the corner of my bed; my eyes burning from lack of sleep but still not tired enough— I see the faded green shirt, crumpled with my old pair of jeans and five other shirts that I never wear. It once meant more to me, that shirt. Now it is just weary and old, collecting memories and dust.

I cannot wear it anymore because the misty green reflection in my eyes take me back, to when I first met you. The smell of cold coffee and the roughness of tissue papers from our first date makes me swoon. It reminds me, of several letters that I wrote to you with silly scribbles on the top and the crossword puzzle that I drew that now deserves a place in your bin. Takes me back to the seashore at night, candle light and the photographs you took of me wearing it. I can still feel the coldness of the plastic cup with the orange slurpee that we shared and laughed till our stomachs hurt, the way you held me every time you came to see me at my place. I think about the weekend we spent together, the matters we argued over; the days, the nights, afternoons and evenings that I cried alone in a grey room while anxiety twisted its knife deeper into my torso. The green shirt in the pile, reminds me of your beautiful smile, yoga class twice a day and how I trusted you with things when I was the most vulnerable and opened up to you and Oh, how you used it against me. Your shirt makes me think of how much my sister liked you, your childish laughter and the short story you wrote about not wanting your shirt back because you think I'm huge and I must have stretched it all out.

Out of all the things that we could and could not have said to each other— I'm sorry for stretching your shirt out.

It's scary, the thought of being alone. No one to love you like how lovers do.
No one to kiss you like how lovers do.
But isn't it scary to love,
with no spark of madness,
no magic in each eye contact you make.
Isn't it scary to waste your time
in half hearted 'I love you's,
lies more than truths and
truths that don't inspire you.
Darling, it's scary here, to be alone
but it's more meaningful,
to eat takeout chinese for one
than to make half hearted efforts,
to kiss how lovers do,
when you're not