When you think you are holding onto
the last shred of yourself,
don’t spend it on the
words that have been long lost in the air,
on the gazes that the eyes have long forgot.
Keep it safe for yourself.
You have lost bigger things than love
and you have still lived well.
And a broken heart is something
that everyone needs in life.

When you think you are holding onto
the last shred of yourself,
don’t spend it on the
words that have been long lost in the air,
on the gazes that the eyes have long forgot.
Keep it safe for yourself.
You have lost bigger things than love
and you have still lived well.
And a broken heart is something
that everyone needs in life.

I feel two lines etched on my face.

One longer than the other.

Feeling a little more colder

each time I step out.

They will lie there,

and dry there,

but never erased.

Surely we have
at least a page in every book we write,
where we brood over
all the things we lost.
And I have often found that page to be
most meaningful.
As if we become better humans
by this loss.
Often on those pages,
I have realized,
not all losses
are to be cried upon.

The familiar images of a girl with strength
and a guy with heart
and feelings that can be reasoned.
I found them everywhere in stories
but not in life.
Mostly they were just weak people
who learnt how to live with their heart.
And loved and let themselves be loved
with the faults that they had.
Here
people who were – what they were.
No love or devotion
promising to change them into lovable beings.
Especially when ‘lovable’ was defined
by people who didn’t approve certain lives
and certain love.
And the perfect image of love
and notion of the perfect people who deserved it
made me think of the emotions we cut from our heart.
Leaving us little more empty,
taking us a little more far
from the perfect life that we were told to have.

A shadow moves in the clearing ahead
avoiding the columns of lighted air.
It steps on the green
now splattered with red
and looks for a hand that can help,
to get rid of this blood.
It finds my face and looks away
seeing probably I am in a bigger mess.

For me, every moment of contentment
is often followed by the realization
of having a lack of either ambition
or the means or ability to achieve it.
And though I can live with the lack of both.
I often wonder
why do we feel the need to be validated
by some measure,
by some reason,
to belong in one of the circles
that the world is divided into.
When we end up questioning our self,
“Who would be actually there for me
if not for the pieces of me
that I am feeding them everyday?”

By the grave of your every love,
I have cried for nights.
For the love they took to their graves
and the life you have lost.
This life that demands me to suffer without hope.
This ocean that I never thought my feet would touch.
The night seem so lonely,
not having someone to
look for me
when I have lost my way
inside the wreck of your life.
Trying to heal the wounds that
you never gave me the right to touch.
The gravestone cries with me.
Like this gravestone,
I mark the life
of the love you lost.

There are certain deaths
that must be lived.

I knew in that moment
that I must run out into the darkness
and find a way
that even the streetlights avoid.
Find a place with no roads
where flowers of new season
will hide my unsure steps.
I knew I had to run away
Or I will never be the same.
So that I don’t loose everything
I (almost) have.
I must run back to that house in wilderness
that I left behind,
to the life I left behind.
So that there are no more graves
of my loved ones
with my name as the murderer engraved.

In an unguarded moment

I saw what it is, to not see myself.

The fogged up mirror

didn’t let my reflection reach me.

And what reached me was

just a picture colored out of lines.

The more I looked at my obscured face,

the more I was convinced

that the faces was not mine.

The more I was convinced of the face being a stranger’s,

more easier it was for me to love and accept it.

If I could see myself as someone else

how easier it would be to live my life.

Not knowing what I know about myself,

not knowing what I think.

To  be what I am and what I am not at the same time.

How easier it would be , if this is

what I saw in mirror everyday.

How beautiful can be not knowing, not seeing.

Only smudged shades of colors.

A face not mine.

I am tempted to walk into the night
and look for you
who has always stood
on the other side of my fear,
waiting for me everyday,
carrying a flower of hundred petals
petals that wither one by one
like the clock that marks days not hours,
days that otherwise would have been too long
if something didn’t tell us
again and again
that not much time has passed
and not much time is left.
Though by the waters of sorrow
that reach till my chest,
I can tell that it would be too late
and too futile
even if we meet now,
when all the happiness
that we came with has been spent
by our imprudent youth.
But still even if it is late
I want to come to you,
Even if I am broken
I want to be yours.
Even if for a day.

The breaths not taken are accumulating.

It mixes with the tears not shed.

Creates a poison that lingers in my thought

but doesn’t flow into my blood.

To keep my barely alive to suffer.

Suffer from a poison of my own making.



Slowly I forget

one small detail at a time.

I realize it only when I see this gap in memory

that my frail imagination fails to fill.

Words are slipping out of my hands.

My thoughts are no longer mine.



All the parks have become graveyards.

Where tomorrow died a slow, slow death.

And it slips into an even slower decay.

I go through my playlist,
looking for all the songs
that like-crazed people
have written for me and
for lonely nights as these.
This voice of stranger that sings my pain
takes me back to this same bed
and same sorrow
somewhere in the past that I want to loose.
Someone sits beside me yet again.
And this weight
is as frightening
as comforting.
To know that the spirits of the nights
that I have killed
are again here,
to take away a friend of theirs.

On nights like these,
I prefer the company
of sad cries that people call songs,
of walking memories that people call ghost.

This life. These people. Who can shatter

at least impact.

But I suppose we live in denial.

For I don’t think that we will

be living this life as we are

if we knew how delicate it is.



I imagine you hands and their gentle grip.

You lips, how they curl when they smile,

and how lovely the words they utter.

You skin that shudders and shivers.

I imagine all this and all that is yours

And hence it is mine.



But when you lifeless body

meets its promised destiny.

Will you still be mine?

Those eyes, that skin, those hands

without life.

And you will rot away

till you are part of this earth.

And you will be everywhere,

but still I would be alone.




Is that love?

Is it love that makes my hand tremble

at the mere thought of you not being there.

Let’s choose this love

that will be end of me, end of you.

Let’s accept the pain this love is.

Because nothing we do,

no pain that we give each other

can be worse than what we will be left with

in the end.

Every smile I have ever faked
leaves a residue
of questions on my lips.
Asking,
“Why is it,
that this smile can’t be real?
Why is it,
that the world is so easily convinced by my lie?
Why don’t they try to break
this facade when they see it
in which I am trapped?”

Rivers of people
crowded the alleys of my mind.
Every thought of mine
had to go through them.
And they were relentless.
By the time it made through them,
it was not the same.
That beautiful new born thought
had turned into a old stranger.
I learned one thing
that I can never have a thought
or an action
that is truly my own.
And even when the building and the skies
of my mind decay,
the people in those alleys will live on.

Do not tell me your secrets.
Do not open your heart.
I have done same mistakes.
The boundaries that you erase
for the sake of love,
can never be made again.
It is a sad thing to bear
for you will always feel the hands
of your love
whispering of death.
They leave everytime
and yet death doesn’t come.

The colors that have drained
from the dreams of people,
lie cluttered on the doorway
of their homes.
Everytime they try to leave
for something more practical
and more safe life, that they chose,
that awaits them everyday
and does not keep them worrying
about what all they can loose.
Everytime they step out,
even in hurry,
they sidestep that clutter.
Look at it from the corner of their eyes
and for a second their heart seems aware
of the frost that is killing it.
For a second the reasons for the
sleepless night and blank gazes is recalled.
But the limbs keep moving
to keep a distance from hopes
that never materialize.
On their way back home
they dread to see
the clutter of discarded dreams.
But they want to believe
that ignoring and forgetting it
becomes easier with time.
Although it never has.

I want to tell you
how you slowly became the tree
that guards me from the happiness and sadness
of the world,
and let me create my own.
How it was lovely to see you grow.
How it hurt to love you.
How beautiful you were even in the worst of your moments.
How I selfishly wanted to be the only scar on your heart
and only smile on your face.
How,on days that I desperately
looked for a reason to stay,
yours was the only name
that anchored me in this world.
I will tell you how I always lived
dreaming of death,
dreaming of release,
and how thankful I am that
you kept me alive.
I will tell you all this.
But not today.
Some other time.

I want to slip into the spots of the moon
that you look at so fondly
on the nights that you are about to break.

I make some space on my cluttered desk
for my head to rest its worries.
And I find a string of light
as a keepsake
to take with me when I’m buried.
What else am I going to miss?
There are so many things I miss in life already.
But I can’t make my heart strong enough
to reach out to a life
that I have lived without.
I can’t make myself
go out of this room
open the door to see
the spring that I always dreamt of,
the spring that waits for me outside.