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349 · Sep 2014
dawn.
makeloveandtea Sep 2014
She laid there midst the wrinkled sheets and untied scarf cuffs.

Even after those long hours of making love,
Love wasn't there enough.
342 · Sep 2014
almost twilight
makeloveandtea Sep 2014
Do you know what it is like
to sit in the darkness of a room
With only a shade of evening light
that is soon going to fade away...

It is soothing, the absence of light
and the finite minutes
of the piano playing on the radio
makeloveandtea Jan 2019
it's cold on this terrace;
they're passing around a joint,
and i'm stunned at how
all the city lights
could pass for stars.
i don't remember the last time i saw you, but
i remember we don't see each other anymore.
maybe sometimes
reasons come later,
and feelings come first.
my friend made me chai
with sweet, powdered milk yesterday
and it tasted like a memory we share.
it was sweet.
i feel very happy here among people
and starry buildings;
i don't remember the last time i was on a terrace
so high,
or much of anything at all,
but regardless
i feel very happy here
and you're free to join me.
328 · Mar 2015
Anxious
makeloveandtea Mar 2015
They say, "She's so arrogant."
"I hate that girl." they say.
but they only see a quiet girl,
who hardly looks at them in the eye.
What they don't see,
is a wounded soul, drowning in the air
that she breathes.
And to drown in air, is the worst
because air is all I've got.
I heard her say, "She is weird."
"I need to stay away from her." she said.
But all she saw, was a loner with
dark eye liner around her eyes.
What she didn't see,
was that the eye liner is the closest
I felt to my authenticity.
That I am actually so paranoid that sometimes,
I wonder if I am lying to myself.
They say, "that girl is getting nowhere."
"She is ruining her life." they say.
They saw me cancel plans repeatedly
they saw me make excuses and lies.
What they couldn't see,
is my heavy heart and the overwhelming anxiety
and how scared I am of not dying
but living.
327 · Feb 2015
Stranger.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
I dreamt last night,
of Carlotta.
That beautiful stranger
I'll never forget.
I traced kisses all along
her neck and shoulders,
and of course,
she smoked her cigarette.
I stared deep into
the still sea in her eyes
And as soon as my mouth
found her lower lip,
She closed her eyes and cried.
My hair let loose on,
either side of her face.
Like heavy curtains
keeping her from the grey.
The intoxicating taste
of her salty skin.
My only breath, she takes away.
I dreamt again,
of Carlotta.
That beautiful stranger
I'll never forget.
And did I mention, she loved another?
I fell in love with someone,
I never met.
327 · Apr 2016
You're not.
makeloveandtea Apr 2016
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
324 · Jul 2017
5am tea.
makeloveandtea Jul 2017
I am sleepy today; walking to the kitchen in a haze;
soft, pink toes on a cold floor.
Turns out,
I don't mind 5am's of awake.
There are bigger things in life than refrigerators ―
crackling of a fresh newspaper from the living room; the empty green, park benches.
I am singing a song,
while I pour water in an ancient saucepan
and it smells like bonfire outside.
There are bigger things in life than coffee tables ―
making up constellations of flickering stars, perfect fallen leaves; someone that holds your face while they kiss you.
Warm hands from the stove now, I walk,
quickly to put them against your stubble
Listen ...the neighbour's dog is singing love songs,
And it smells like tea here.
There are bigger things in life than Ideal ―
your cold nose at my cheek, sweet biscuits for breakfast, remembering the words to an Italian song from years ago.
This cold morning of you and tea, in an empty house of dusty floors
I realize,
There are bigger things in life.
314 · Sep 2015
Drunk date.
makeloveandtea Sep 2015
Lively people and empty conversations.
In here it's so much colder.
Lorazepam and alcohol,
I'm drunk but at least bolder.
I've been looking into his brandy eyes,
feels like it's been so long.
Couple more sips and his black shirt,
now they are playing our song.
The room is now a chatter,
I can barely stand.
We talk about our fancy tea
with whiskey in our hands.
It's 3AM and whiskey kisses
also a lot of stories and lies.
Love songs only break your heart
so bid our blurry goodbye.
313 · Feb 2019
A good day in childhood
makeloveandtea Feb 2019
hidden ways through bushes
in a july evening —
i'm walking to the park.
haven't learnt to write
poems yet,
or to think of thoughts.
but i draw girls
wearing fancy clothes
in my sister's old notebooks.
i have learnt hidden ways
to exist everyday —
go to my room when dad
is watching the television
in the living room,
don't laugh at dinner,
pretend to fall asleep,
pretend to not hear.
i haven't learnt yet
what it means
to feel relieved
to leave the house and
go to the park.
a mix of straight and wavy,
my hair,
is a roasted-coffee brown
in the sunshine.
the swings are taken
and i've made a couple friends
over shared boredom.
we decide to make
bouquets for home.
big, round leaves
rolled into cones,
and off we go
looking for the prettiest flowers.
orange, white and pink hibiscuses
and a big adventure,
stealing roses from someone's garden.
i've fallen down from running,
and the other girl
tripped over my leg.
we are laughing — breathless;
our cheeks pink and dusty.
the sun has swirled into a nothing,
and the girls say
they have to go.
a bouquet of flowers in hand,
i walk back home
from hidden ways
through bushes.
leaving the shoes outside,
i rush to the kitchen
to fill a glass with water —
the flowers will live another day
in a makeshift vase.
in the living room
dad switches on the television.
309 · Feb 2015
Drowning.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
I'm always in a state of drown.
I write to catch a breath
and with every passing minute,
I'm losing it.
I'm not amused by the world outside.
I live in my melancholic paradise.
I breathe in a paper carton
filled with gallons of thought.
I cannot breathe; but
I'm breathing.
305 · Feb 2015
Carlotta.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
Ciao, my beautiful Carlotta.
You are so magnificent,
it makes me cry.
Your trembling lips,
like the waves of the ocean.
A purple sun,
setting in your eyes.
Oh, my only star in the sky,
I think I might be in love
with your cropped back hair
and the scent of your skin,
mixed with cigarette.
Come here, sweet Carlotta.
I want to paint every inch of
that honey glazed skin.
I'd drink you up like *****
and maybe won't feel so hollow within.
Would you stay here for a while?
We are running out of time.
Ciao, my beautiful Carlotta.
You're so unforgettable,
it makes me cry.
304 · Feb 2015
Abyss.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
It's hard to be meaningful
when your thoughts,
are contorted and destroyed.
Anything that I will ever be,
will be meaningless and flawed.
There will be passion,
there always is.
And there will be lies,
there always is.
Oh. and a universe of stars
in the palm of my hands.
I will hand you a piece of
my world, and move on.
Till I am left with no more.
I know,
it makes no sense.
It's hard to make sense,
when your thoughts
are lies and hollow.
Well, what can I say?
I will never make sense.
makeloveandtea Sep 2016
The strands of my hair mix well with the breeze
and here you are, right in front me.
And it's a typical evening at Danny's
of slow-dance romances and marijuana smokers.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?
People,
like you.
Who appear in the cab, on the way home or
in front of me when when I am looking at my reflection on the floor.
Or people,
like Danny.
Who don't exist until I'm writing a poem.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?
296 · Dec 2018
list of quiets for you.
makeloveandtea Dec 2018
what?
nothing.
i have nothing
to say.
for the lack of plea
and expression,
anyway,
I wrote you
a list of quiets:
- turning of a cab
into my lane at 10:30
- stirring sugar in tea
- closing the door
behind you
- last word in a letter
- squeezing toothpaste
onto a wet toothbrush
- millisecond to realize
something's funny
- a song
from the neighbor's window
- the longest argument
- drinking cold water
- searching for the towel
- kissing against a wall
- moment of not-over-this
at the kitchen sink, washing
dishes and spoons
- walking over to a friend
- switching on the string lights
- anxiety outside a restaurant
- warm feet on cold floor
first thing in the morning
- i think,
i really think
we can make the sweetest life.
295 · Mar 2016
Bed.
makeloveandtea Mar 2016
Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping
I have almost drowned in this room.
Recently when he said he was okay,
with having another women with us in bed.
This bed was a storm, my dear and I am never a boat goodenough.
I had her hair on my face and the sheet did not smell like him and me.
I almost drowned in the moment he closed his eyes and she put her hand on my breast.
The air was now tears and sea water and her fingertips and her ankle
and his wrist and
everything I managed to see,
blinking, like photographs.
I almost drowned and I didn't want to be at sea,
or be a boat.
Oh, my blury lighthouse at dawn
don't shine on my bed when I am sleeping.
I am safe here and it's dry
but I have already drowned in my head.
292 · May 2017
Sangria.
makeloveandtea May 2017
As I ponder about today — the backdoor to a restaurant that played nostalgia in tune;
I wonder,
if the day was any more than her.
"This is the only happy-poem I wrote." She says. Coral.
Then goes on to string together blue melancholy.
So I wonder,
if lavender could be a person.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot and her people.
I am here
trying to learn her as if,
everything around her is scribble.
and I wonder,
"Do I understand?"
"Let me fix my face." She'd say grabbing her roses and apricots;
I don't understand.
I am here
painting her,
as her earrings dance with the tilt of her head;
the way she rises on toes reliving her poetry in a room full of eyes or
when she stops
to look at the ******* her jump-rope outside the car window,
as an evening fades away.
She smiles sangria-smiles; talks about vineyards, a parking lot, chai and her people...
A day has gone by
And I wonder,
If I know her yet.
292 · Nov 2016
Baby birds.
makeloveandtea Nov 2016
I do not feel free.
I do not feel free in these clothes;
In these interactions, media, the material under my feet on the carpet.
I do not feel free!
In my words, my voice;
In the way that we have become.
Another person is afraid to be called a Feminist and I wonder, what have be become?
Where are we?
What do we want?
Maybe it's sort of an existential crisis but I cannot make a way out of my chaos without writing it out.
Growing up those books, films manifested into dreams of climbing trees, making wings out of stretched arms and one day, saving the world.
Here I am today, in the backseat of a car, scared of the cab driver at midnight.
They say I am a useless, angry feminist.
I flinch at the word.
Maybe it is true but when I was five, making bouquets of wildflowers I was less angry, less feminist,
...less aware.
I could forget the bruises on my caretaker's face,
or the time my father barged into our room in the night and asked her
"Have you increased your prices or WHAT!?"
only because she refused to sleep with him that day.
It was easy to not wonder then, why she never spoke up or why she kept serving meal after meal after meal
to him when she was crying, sick or numb.
I was caught up with being bullied myself to think more about why that guy
was laughed at for being feminine.
Maybe today I am more scared than angry. Maybe scared is a more acceptable emotion to negotiate my right to equality.
I don't feel free.
What do I do when instead of arguing with a sexist commenter, I want to hug them and tell them
how much I want to cry,
how helpless I feel and how badly
I want this world to be a better place for each one of us?
I am reminded
of the couple of times that my caretaker brought home, baby birds
that fell from a tall tree near our house. Each time she made a home out of stacked twigs in a basket and fed them grains.
I was afraid to pet them but she would hold them close to her fearlessly.
Each time
the birds would die in a week's time.
I always thought the house was too physically, maybe emotionally cold for baby birds to survive.
All I want,
is a house warm enough for baby birds to survive.
Is it too much to ask for?
286 · Apr 2016
After work.
makeloveandtea Apr 2016
He got home around 8 pm and walked to the kitchen, almost mechanically. He put water to boil while he picked one of the two identical mugs kept in the cabinet. His eyes kept drifting as he made himself coffee and walked to the couch, forgetting the sugar as usual.

It had been two weeks since she killed herself and it still hadn't settled in his head. How can someone that you have known for more than a decade, just not exist anymore? He sipped from his cup and resisted the urge to spit out the coffee. He never drank coffee without sugar but today, he was too tired to get up again. "Maybe I don't deserve sugar in my coffee." he thought and took another sip. The curtains at the balcony danced slowly, to the grey evening breeze and he stared, unblinkingly. The curtains, almost a dreamlike hypnosis taking him back to memories. Memory, of their room at midnight and the black-blue bruises at her back. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this. I just... I am sorry." he had said. She was expressionless when he hugged her, as if she was dead already. He gasped as he looked away from the dancing curtains, breathing short breaths. It wasn't the first time that he was feeling guilty. He always felt sorry after every argument, every bruise and every time she screamed out of pain.

Before she died, she took the time to gather all the letters they had written to each other, old dried flowers, the dress she wore on their first date and all little memories that reminded of the happy times they spent together and arranged all of it on their bed. What did she mean by doing so? Maybe she wanted him to remember her by all the good memories or maybe, she wanted to taint those memories with what she was about to do so that no matter what he thinks of, he is always reminded of this.

He frantically got up and drained his coffee in the kitchen sink. The memories haunt him, even the good ones. It never was clear why she decided to **** herself and if it was because of him or not but either way, he was guilty.
284 · Aug 2018
Cabride in the rain.
makeloveandtea Aug 2018
I'm tying my hair up
into a messy something
as it starts to rain outside.
The radio is low in the background,
and we're on an empty road.
Reflecting city lights;
leaning against the window.
My shoulder, neck, eyes
are becoming the colors
of a traffic light.
The downpour is cold
and beautiful.
I'm warm and tired
and unsure
about where I'm going.
283 · Apr 2016
saved messages.
makeloveandtea Apr 2016
I don't think you understand the person that I am. I don't think I have more energy to make this relationship more than it is because no matter what I want it to be, it is always going to stay how it really is. I do not feel angry at you right now, simply because I do not have the energy in me to feel anger. I just feel drained, that's all. At this point, I don't know what is the right thing to do. All I know is that this relationship is draining me more than it should. I am a paranoid person and that is the truth. Lying to me, so elaborately for whatever reason is not healthy for my mind. It also means, that I cannot trust you again, even if you say something as simple as "I had pasta for lunch, today." I just cannot. I had told you before about my paranoia (about cameras in my apartment, people watching through my window, doubting everything anyone ever says etc) but you still went ahead and lied to me. Specially, abandoning me when I needed someone the most. That means, I cannot depend on you again. I am scared to be alone, just like you are and everyone else is but I cannot give my hundred percent in a relationship that drains me this much. Again, I don't know what is the right thing to do so I am going to go with the flow and not get worked up about this. But I would like to say, that I do not look at us as a serious relationship anymore. I would be more comfortable if I were only dating you and not calling it a relationship. If that is okay with you, I would be okay with seeing you and giving a chance to adjust. Also, I would like my childhood photograph and the journal pages back; you can keep the letters.
279 · Sep 2015
Unorganized.
makeloveandtea Sep 2015
The first man that I ever fell for
treated me like that vibrant shirt in his closet that
he never chose to wear but never could throw away.
But I never left,
I sat instead in a pile of wrinkled fabric waiting to be worn.
And wear, he did.
Four years of pixie dust and careless romance till the day,
I said I did not want to be with him anymore.
"But why?" he asked. "I'm not happy." I replied.
And then came, her.
She lived far away in another world
with her beautiful lover that she sang of, everyday.
and to love her would have gone in vain.
But love, I did. Because
my heart is as big as the ocean with roaring waves of affection
but it's a shame that you cannot contain an ocean
in tiny glass jars.
I crave for sorrow and flaws,
my daydream is a love story with a sad end.
I don't go looking for relationships, promises or fairy tales.
I crave for salty tears, thunderstorm kisses and
magnificent words that sound like crashing waves at the shore.
I don't want you to stay with me for a lifetime,
I want instead,
is inspiration, your thoughts in my head and my thoughts in yours
and our temporary happiness to get by.
276 · Sep 2014
Hours.
makeloveandtea Sep 2014
Here I lay
With a heavy heart again.
And nostalgic melodies that makes me feel nothing.
And here I lay
In a sea of blanket
Only the music of this emptiness ringing.
Here I lay
Staring at my blurry blue ceiling
Till night breaks into day.
And counting the tears rolling down my cheek; the quiver in my breath,
Here I lay.
273 · Mar 2016
Purple lovesong.
makeloveandtea Mar 2016
I think of her often but
I only sometimes let her know.
She colors her lips purple
and kisses cigarettes, and leaves
purple marks on her glasses.
I know she thinks of me,
At times.
Maybe when she has wiped her color
and she is holding a cup,
maybe she sees me
in the refection of herself
in clear tea.
And when it is late at night
and she has stepped out in cold,
to smoke her last cigarette
and I am asleep.
Possible, that she thinks of me
and I dream about,
only her.
273 · Feb 2015
Coffee.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
I woke up startled today
and yesterday,
I spilt coffee on my coverlet.
Two week old scribble,
still on my skin.
I forget. Oh, I forget.
The shade of black
on my TV screen.
I've been staring at it,
for hours.
Twenty four missed calls
and broken hearts.
Oh, I'm such a coward.
I woke up startled today.
I'm bathing in a pool
of meaningless tears.
I'm lying on the floor.
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to be here.
I'm laughing so hard,
I want to etch myself
with knifes.
Happiness. Happiness.
In this beautiful life.
I woke up startled today.
Outside it's grey and rain.
I guess, I'll sleep some more,
on my coffee stain.
266 · Nov 2015
Next to him.
makeloveandtea Nov 2015
I'm lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and heavy breaths.
My small room painted in the last shade of an evening
and his perfume.
There is more to this man than his honey glazed skin or the white shirt that he had slid off of his shoulders.
Secrets in the shape of his hands and the roughness of his palms against my fingertips.
With his half hearted smiles, his melancholy he hides at the seams of the curve of his lips.
There is more to this man,
Than how he lowers his voice when he walks around, talking on the phone.
Something about his bonfire eyes and the sweet disguise of an ocean of lonliness.
He is not like sunday morning, deep breaths in the shower or anything that says— home.
He is instead,
Like bitter coffee, or like thunderstorm keeping you awake at night.
What is it about his tireless stares, his mysterious eyes or the lies that I don't understand?
Lying next to him,
Midst sweat soaked sheets and lazy nudges
I can't help but wonder—
There is more to this man.
265 · Jul 2017
Breakfast on Tuesday.
makeloveandtea Jul 2017
Running across a street to an unfamiliar café to meet a stranger is not ideal for a seashell-person, but still, there's something comforting about wearing a bright, floral skirt on a rainy day.

The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.

Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.

It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.

When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.

I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.
261 · Jun 2016
Pondering about a breakup.
makeloveandtea Jun 2016
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.
258 · Mar 2016
first day I met you.
makeloveandtea Mar 2016
sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
I like how your eyes shift and your lips curl
and I think about the million times that
you've smiled that same smile.
Your blue shirt, my favorite one in our closet and
swimming in your eyes,
I come across many tea and coffees, wrinkled sheets, undone laundary and kisses.
You shuffle your feet under the table,
and I make paper boats of tissue
I like how for a moment your fingers touch my knuckles.
It takes me back to,
our giggles on a quiet plane, walking barefoot on grass, crying with you under the sheet and anniversary dinners.
sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
It's our first date, for a couple hours
and a lifetime.
257 · Jul 2016
Making you uncomfortable.
makeloveandtea Jul 2016
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?
254 · May 2019
meetcute
makeloveandtea May 2019
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks —
wear my navy blues
instead of your black ones.
across blue, white
and warm wooden tables
at restaurants,
we will make
inside jokes
for a lifetime.
in one of our summers
you will get yourself
many linen shirts
and i am
going to be
pleasantly
surprised.
didn't think
you could look
even more
breathtaking.
there will be succulents,
coffee cups on the floor,
and some jobs
that we will complain about.
writer's blocks,
a few mid-life crises
and arguments about
what we need from life.
there will be a lot of life.
moments of
"i can't believe how happy
i am"
times,
staying home
eating fancy ramen
and listening to
Take On Me
over again,
and loving
every bit.
and across tables,
midst writer's block,
inside jokes
and coffee,
i'm going to
fall in love
with you
a little bit.
someday,
years later
you're going to
accidentally switch
our socks
again —
navy blues to black.
and we'd
never know.
251 · Feb 2015
Cravings.
makeloveandtea Feb 2015
Beautiful white gown
and her eyes,
they shone like diamonds.
Light blue crystals in her hair.
So beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.
Her skin as dark as copper
luminating blood,
trickling down her lips.
Subtle glorious marks on her arms
from the tied rope,
keeping her to the chair.
Oh, how beautiful
the glittering tears on her cheeks
and reflecting in her eyes,
the light blue crystals in her hair.
I'm so intoxicated
by that perfume,
on the hollow of her neck
and collar bone.
I let her know,
"I remember this fragrance.
from your showers at dawn."
The solace I find,
in the echoes of her scream.
As I draw my knife,
"Shhh, baby it's just a tool."
Her beautiful white gown,
now a vibrant shade of red.
So beautiful.
Oh, so beautiful.
248 · Dec 2015
Sedated.
makeloveandtea Dec 2015
Darling, I have been thinking of you
Lying sleepless in my warm bed,
Waiting for my sedative to
Cradle me to sleep.
I have been picturing you in a dark room,
Fast asleep next to your baby. And
The sight of your chest rising and falling
Is comforting to me.
You scare me, darling. I'm scared of the
decieve in your eyes, at times.
But there you are, right now
Your body sinking in your cold mattress
With your eyes closed and mouth half open, here, you are only a boy
Lost in this terrifying world. And
Here I am,
Traveling in my nocturnal state of mind,
To where I am most at peace.
And now, you are awake,
And I have fallen asleep.
Probably,
Forgotten each one of these words.
243 · Nov 2015
Awake at night.
makeloveandtea Nov 2015
Love, you're lying awake at night
With your thoughts as tangled
As your curly hair
And your eyes, they are blinking away
In the darkness of today.
Love, you just don't say
How their stares drain you
Or how restless your heart is.
Instead, you
Paint that seamless smile
And blink away the night.
Love, you are magnificent
But do you realize?
That it is art, the way
You walk across a room,
Live in those long showers or
Lift your arms to tie your hair.
Times when you stare,
At ghosts from your memory
And nothingness.
You look like you belong
Anywhere but here.
Now, you are lying awake at night
Like an unmoving ocean
And I wish I could put you together
Like a jigsaw but for now
I'd rather wish for you,
Sleep.
239 · Oct 2018
air conditioning
makeloveandtea Oct 2018
under soft sunlight
at the beach we left
in seven days,
on our vacation three years ago,
the boat is collecting rain.
the weather is like
air conditioning
and i've forgotten
things.
wonderful things
have happened to me
and i've been happy;
i've been
weird.
i'm never used to
the keypad
and i've found
old conversations.
the color in the drawings
change all the time.
you
and the vacation,
are blurry.
i don't like
the playoffs anymore
and i don't
mind you smoking.
it's been a long day
and three years —
lazing around
in an evening-balcony
's unremembered
yet
the boat
at the beach we left
is withering
but still
collecting rain.
238 · Feb 2016
Paper boats.
makeloveandtea Feb 2016
I first met you at a tiny cafe that served awful coffee but was comfortable to me. Something about the walls in that place, something about the rough texture that I really liked. Often when I sat there alone, I would run my fingers along the uneven, grainy lines on the wall and it would feel pleasant.

You wanted to meet in the afternoon, which was strange to me because most men would conveniently want to meet for dinner and drinks. I usually have it all planned out, almost like a ritual. I ask the person to meet at this particular bar that I am familiar with and I always get there before they do. I order myself a whiskey-soda so that I am tipsy enough to bare sharing conversation with a complete stranger. When they finally arrive, I greet them with a big smile and a compliment. "You look great!" I'd say. They would be flattered and get comfortable. The date usually ends up with me sleeping with them and never calling them again. Sometimes, I do call but only to sleep with them again. Nothing more, nothing less.

So when you wanted to meet in the afternoon at a coffee shop, it threw me off guard. I was an anxious mess when I got there also because you had reached the café before I did. I do not remember most of our conversation that day because I was having an anxiety overdose through out our date but I do remember, that you were wearing a sky blue shirt because I had told you about my obsession with all the shades of blue. I remember talking about how bad the coffee was, making paper boats out of tissues and prolonged eye contact that made me more anxious and soothed me at the same time.

You were leaving the city for a couple months on the day after the day we met, so we decided to meet again the next day for a movie. It was a wonderful movie but the lounge chairs were too big and it felt like we were sitting so far apart. Every now and then, I would try to look at you from the corner of my eye and I'd laugh too when I would hear you laugh. I usually get dizzy when I stand after I have sat down for more than an hour, so I held onto your arm to prevent myself from falling when we were getting out of the movie theater. I took you to the bar I really liked and I had a couple of ***** drinks and you had a beer. I was tipsy soon and the candle at our table looked hazy, among other things.

We left the bar, swaying and laughing. "I don't want to go home yet." I told you. "Me neither." you said, looking into my eyes like you really meant it. I suggested we go to the beach. We did. I remember the calming sound of the ocean and your voice... It was a beautiful melange. We walked along the shore, back and forth, talking. "I really like your hands." I thought and maybe even said aloud, as I traced your palms with my fingertips. We kissed that night and before you dropped me home, you promised to meet me in the morning, the next day before you left for the airport.

I had lit candles at my tiny apartment and organized my journals and canvas boards, to make it seem a little tidy. We sat on my couch and awkwardly smiled at each other at intervals while we talked about random things. I remember us holding hands and talking, looking into each other's eyes. We made beautiful, blurry, enchanting love that evening. The room was filled with the low evening light from my window and the sound of us breathing. I loved every facet of the time I spent with you.

While we lay on the narrow bed, when you were holding my hand that was on your chest just minutes before we got dressed again and you left. You asked me if I would wait for you and I pondered about it for a moment before asking you if you wanted me to wait for you...

I am glad both answers were, yes.
Remembrance of the three days I spent with you.
233 · Apr 2018
Waving goodbye.
makeloveandtea Apr 2018
Waving at you
I close the door
and it's as if
I've lived life twice.
'feel like I've shared this moment with you before.
Maybe I should tell you —
We kissed in the elevator once
and sat in the balcony with old wine in our rented apartment;
you asked me to marry you.
I'm never sure what I said.
Time has been swirly lately —
losing its shape.
I'm giving up
as I make smiles on the car window at dawn.
You have laughed 2468 times,
and fallen in love twice
since I melted
into a pastel drawing.
I think we lived for a longtime,
and made photographs of our
limbs, lunches, birthdays,
paints and wrinkles.
You didn't like sushi and I liked it very much and
we argued a few times.
I apologise,
I've lived life twice.
And you are moving on in this one.
No elevator, balcony, wine.
No photographs, birthdays, wrinkles.
Waving at you
I close the door.
231 · Apr 2021
lovenote
makeloveandtea Apr 2021
you say it
another
time in
the kitchen;
then
i say it
with coffee
in the evening.
we sit,
quietly,
together
at the end
of day —
maybe you
watch a film;
my feet
at your
lap; i open
an old book
... and there
it is again.
229 · Sep 2015
About today.
makeloveandtea Sep 2015
It has been raining all day today
and in the afternoon there was a lightning
and I felt like someone  lit up firecrackers.
I did not take a nap today,
I sat listening to melodies
and drenched in melancholy.
I was happy for a while
but then I was blue
for a while.
Then I sat down to write
about the rain and my drenching.
228 · Jan 2015
Where I live.
makeloveandtea Jan 2015
I don't live here
Or even close by.
I'd tell you where I live
but I wouldn't want to lie;
you won't like it a bit.
I live in the casted shadows
of trees sprouting life.
Hiding away from
the unbearable ray of light,
that you call,
Hope.
I float as disguised dust
in the air that doesn't get a chance in the sunlight.
I live in ordinary coincidences
and sunken tears on pillow cases.
I'm in the coffee stains,
the discouraging rains
and naive romances.
I live in the kind people with tragic endings,
the whispers on nostalgic lanes
and lonesome dances.
Now, I've told you where I live,
in the realities of the miracles you live by
and in all honesty, it doesn't feel like home.
I wouldn't want to lie.
227 · Sep 2014
slomo love.
makeloveandtea Sep 2014
I'm letting go of him today.
I untangle my fingers from his hair
and lean back till I don't feel his eyelashes on my skin
I stay on these empty sheets, bare
dig him up till I feel hollow within.
I inch away enough to
free my lower lip from his subtle bite
try not to feel his warm breath on my neck
the sweet smell of downpour to get me through the night.
It feels like this moment is passing so slow
but it is only occurring from present to past
The tips of my hair hardly touching his chest
Honey, we can't make this moment last.
226 · Apr 2015
Dear one.
makeloveandtea Apr 2015
It is raining today
and all I have is
a  broken cup and Carlotta.
And with luck like that
my dear,
everything is better.
Bitter coffee in my cup
sweetened by her laughter.
And the cigarette I
share with her lips.
This is my lottery, my friend.
My *** of gold,
her shy amber lashes
and rainy mornings.
when she says she loves me.
With luck like that
my dear,
I'm the richest of all, you see.
209 · Sep 2014
Tristeza
makeloveandtea Sep 2014
"I love you." he said and kissed me on the sides.

I looked at myself in the mirror and cried.
makeloveandtea Apr 2018
I like it here in your point of view.
My eyes are strained and
it smells like cigarette and rose in here.
Early morning,
waving for a cab
my skin is lit in streetlights.
Never sure what you find beautiful;
never know what you want.
Writer buying coffee at dawn;
her hair is a chaos in the air.
It's so cold;
her nose is the coldest —
That's all I am at the moment.
Not sad.
Not particularly happy.
"Wonder what it's like to date you."
"What did you imagine?"
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
I feel anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Smiles.
White noise.
You're blinking, looking away
and at me.
Why do everything I write
sound like a lovesong?
Do you like it here in my point of view?
206 · Mar 2015
Maybe love is.
makeloveandtea Mar 2015
Maybe love is,
the blood stains on the wall
and the reeking smell of whiskey
at the break of dawn.
Maybe emotion is,
the quiver in my breath
while you use me
like cheap ****.
It makes more sense
when you cut my eyes
and throw me in
the middle of the sea.
Than
when you hold my face
and say that you love me.
Maybe home is,
your hands around my neck
and the bruises on my back
and feet.
Maybe pleasure is,
the coral shade of my skin,
from when you choked me
till I couldn't breathe.
I'm addicted to the
accidental cigarette burns
every once in a while.
Maybe love is,
lying numb in the bathroom,
on the cold marble tiles.
206 · Dec 2016
Often.
makeloveandtea Dec 2016
Home,
I often wonder
Where is.
For I found it
Often everywhere,
And nowhere at all.
Under a big slide in the evening
When I was little,
With pebbles and dust
Home, was easy to make.
I found it in teacups, in long drives
Sitting right behind the driver to avoid eye contact and
Hot showers before dinner to skip time.
"Why are seas so loud and so quiet at the same time?"
I'd often think and make home out of the endless sand at the beach.
You didn't ask me why I was quiet or shy
When I met you.
Maybe you understood my awkwardness, somehow.
But it's nice to drink tea quietly
Even with people around,
And that felt like home.
My apartment is walls but
I have corners I call home.
I often wonder,
How lonely I'd be without pebbles, art, hot showers and the loud rumbles of the quiet sea.
Or just a while in the morning light with you and black tea,
At home.
makeloveandtea Mar 2018
"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?
202 · Aug 2016
Cab ride.
makeloveandtea Aug 2016
What is it about cab rides,
that make me feel so happy?
Just an hour drive, of uninterrupted playing
of my playlist.
Something about, passing everything by.
There is a comfortable place,
in the way between.
Something soothing,
about 'not there yet'.
201 · Jun 2016
Thoughts on reaching 20.
makeloveandtea Jun 2016
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.
201 · Dec 2018
before saying goodbye
198 · Aug 2017
Goldfish kisses.
makeloveandtea Aug 2017
I don't need much from you.
I don't need promises, or a double bed or your truths.
I have lived a life enough to appreciate the little things
I have.
I have spent enough afternoons lying in monsoon's damp heat,
listening to crickets chirp,
a particular rat's squeaking,
whistling birds at a distance..
to know,
what matters the most.
Maybe I need from you most, to exist. Promise to be real in present time;
say for sure that you will look at me, and touch me
and wander with me.
I don't want you to be mine or make me yours.
I can't assure you I wouldn't change. But if you still always exist, somewhere, somehow in time
...I promise to stroke your back till you fall asleep,
and make you pots of tea.
Just live here, touch my cheek
and when you're walking too fast,
stop once to let me catch up.
You keep walking and waking;
dreaming, typing, eating, singing that song about blue skies.
Times I stroke your knuckles with my fingertips
when we are sitting together,
maybe hold my hand or...
look at me sometimes like you know me.
And in return my darling,
I promise you ― my heart and goldfish kisses.
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