i don't know how they do it-
write about how the twinkle in your eye
sparkles more than the stars at night
how your blue orbs
make a sea seem shallow,
when you and i both know-
it's just plain lies.
your eyes are not deeper than oceans
nor do they showcase a storm
or a peaceful beach wave
or the soothing sky
they're just your eyes
and they're blue.
like... a copper sulphate solution.
no
you don’t have a smile
as bright as the sun
although, i can’t seem to understand
why you’d like it to be compared
with something people prefer
to not look directly at.
your laugh is not as vivid as
the first blossom of spring
or your face like that of a winter spent
in some hill station-
you are not a landscape
or a place that can be mapped
with beauty
and serenity
you are a person
living and breathing mass of
bones and flesh
muscles and blood-
then how
how and why
must you be treasured with comparisons
and parallels with
the stars
the sun
the sea
the seasons-
anything but you.
i do not know how they do it
or what words make a rhyme
what stanzas string together a poem
what plot comprises a good story
but i do know my stars
the way they rhyme in their constellations
how their twinkle makes up a good poem
and where their stories began to end
and unlike most poets
(not that i consider myself one)
instead of your eyes
or voice or laugh
instead of 11:11 wishes
or the perfect date ideas
when i look at the stars
i see ***** of fire
and gas
and work that still needs to be researched upon-
while you
you are my person
the one who’s there after a bad day at work
who tells me (every day) that
the next experiment i try
is definitely going to be a success, unlike the ones before
the one who keeps this science freak
grounded to the earth
(even though i insist that it’s gravity bu-)
the one who i won’t mind writing a poem about
even if it’s filled with unrelated references to the stars and moon
even if it compromises everything i’ve ever known
i could still write about you
(i think i’m doing a great job)
even if don’t know how to.

black
like the color of his hair
when he left home at twenty
like the darkest of nights
he spent counting the grey of the stars
as if stroking the grey
on his mother’s head
b l a c k
like the dress he bought for his daughter
for when he’ll get to see her again
like the gun that adorned his hand
while his body bled
orange
white
blue
green
b l a c k
like the lines on his sister’s face
when the kohl raced with her tears
that spilled out of her eyes
while life spilled out of him
like the son his grandmother got to see-
her flesh and blood
in flesh and in blood
burnt, buried, dead
just ash
b l a c k
like the broken bangles on his wife’s wrist
as she tried to piece his broken body back together
her heart crumbling with grief
while he crumbled away from life
b l a c k
like what once had been red
and colorful
happy
amorous
is nothing but just plain dark
veiling the stars in the casket grey
the sky rests
like the tiny dancers of gold and honor
on his shoulders
confined within a coffin
cuffed in tricolor
but underneath it all
it’s all just plain
black.

every night
i end up writing something about you-
the way your lips moved along with mine
to voice our poetries together
the way your hands slipped around my waist
to lead me through a slow dance
the way your eyes twinkled into mine
to make me want to write something about them;
about you-
i don’t want to write about you.
i’m done with making you the ink
of every phrase i scribble
of letting you be the canvas of
my artwork
it’s like
this poem isn’t mine anymore
it belongs to you
you are the words in it
and, you are it’s heart;
our heart,
It calls for you
because, i’m too scared to do it
on my own-
call for you.
i can’t let you have more pieces of me
than you already do
even though it’s me
who’s still holding onto
your memories
your touch
your voice
your clothes
your scent
you.
here
here is the only place
i have you for me
it’s like the world goes in a blur
and, it’s just you
me
and us
holding onto each other
grasping
clutching
not letting go.
but, it’s just me
who’s hugging
my memories of you
grasping, clutching-
not letting go.
the pen slips my grip
your warmth escapes me
i did it again.
i wrote about you.
again.
and like every other night
tonight
I end up writing about you-
but i don’t want to.

i don’t want your hugs anymore
-Manasvi.

one red
one white
and one pink,
i picked up three shades of love
along the way home today.

today
eight am
you ask me to be early back home,
something about an unofficial
seventy-sixth date you had planned

two five pm
you call me to check
whether i’d had my lunch or not
and whether amidst all the work
i’d managed to forget about later today
in all honesty, it did slip my mind
but i told you no

four thirty one pm
twenty missed calls,
and eleven texts from you.
‘hey, you on your way?’
i don’t respond

five six pm
i leave my work station
and call you back, finally
you don’t answer
i messed up,
i know.

five fifty three pm
on my way
i pass cafes
and couples
holding hands
kissing
celebrating
...smiling
being everything we used to be

stop
stop
s t o p
a small boy comes up to my window
and offers me flowers
‘a rose for your lady?’

even though
it may not seem like it
i’m still here
for you
for me
for us
and i know, you are too
in the sticky notes on my lunch box
in the small smiles into my kisses
in the wordless i love yous.
you’re here too.

i smile
And take three
one for you
one for me,
and, one for us

i’m in love with you

i’m thinking of you.

i’m thankful for you.

one red
one white
and one pink
i picked up three
shades of love along
the way home today.

for you.


Roses.

Perhaps, you were born kneeling
and crying
expecting a kiss of mercy
and touch of love
Perhaps, you were not born strong
and feisty
seizing the smiles on the faces
that saw you
but remember, woman
you were never weak.
.
You may be the kind of woman
that men want to keep
and you can let them keep you;
hold you, grasp you, clutch you, anything-
if it means that they can get
a lingering sense of what a woman feels like
But don’t let them squeeze away
the very soul of you;
what makes you you
don’t whimper wordlessly
while their knuckles turn white
from holding onto you so tight.
.
You may be the kind of woman
that men want to write about
and you can let them weave you
into words, phrases
stories, metaphors, anything-
from the curves of your smile to the dips of your hips
let them frame you into pages
But don’t let them ink your innocence
with dark shades of night
or color you frail
when you’ve only ever been valiant
throughout your life
.
You may be the kind of woman
that men want to love
and you can let them love you;
kiss you, care for you
praise the delicacy of your being
and the strength that lies within
But don’t let them adorn you
with mere adjectives of the common-
“Pretty” “****” “hot”, and whatnot
You are worth more than
just words that are meant to capture you into feelings
you are bold, like the text on my computer screen
you are hope, like that hidden in the Sun
you…are beautiful.
.
You are a woman
a human
a mother,
a sister,
a daughter,
an equal.
.
And yes, perhaps
You were not born strong
and feisty,
but remember, woman
you were never weak
You are the whisper
of the wind
singing in our ears
‘Carpe Diem’
you are our yesterday
today
and tomorrow .
But above all-
You are a woman
And that should be enough.