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Nilesh Mondal Oct 2015

Our love is a ******* tire tread
on an empty midnight highway
And no one remembers it later
But the people whose body it runs over
Every night.


You say you've never seen me
The way I saw you, and believed you to be
Is it just because your eyes refuse
To be mine,
Like your heart always has?

You don't wanna share too much with me
And I understand
Too much whispers spoil a tale
Too much talking shares every moment
We have striven to be away
From each other.


I've long been emptied of my screams
They are all painted in black and burgundy.
And hung across your corridor walls
For you to feel your way up
In complete darkness.
Nilesh Mondal Oct 2015

waking up to a city where dreaming is clichéd
and lives and lies
of old men
find their way into books
with covers that have
fornicating ants
in the backgrounds
and words like the gutter
strangers and cool
to the touch.


this friendship ***** and you know it
we keep finding ourselves
in each other’s arms
as if drunk
it’s hard not to hold my hand to your lips
and feel your hot breath
on my palm
yesterday you kissed me
while I was asleep
and left without waking me up
but your lips left a delicious imprint
on mine
and my cat meowed at it
all afternoon.


we took to the empty streets like a disease
and ended up blaming
each other
for getting lost
in the emptiness

they called our names
on the speakers
over the fairgrounds
under the balloon bridge
around the candy cart

everyone heard it, but us
we were too busy getting lost
by then
Nilesh Mondal Sep 2015
Our goddess lives under a banyan tree
Deep in the forest. She paints
And sings songs, to put herself to sleep.

2. Royina, your dad paints too.

Tuesday evening, he paints skies
And at the dinner table, you wonder
Why he has blue on his throat.

Wednesday, he paints the sun.
His fingers are red with the flames
He doesn't read letters addressed to him
Because he's afraid
Of burning them black.

Friday, he doesn't paint.
Just sits by the lake, on a secluded bench.
Feeding pigeons. And hearing them coo.

3. Royina, remember the boy who held you
Last time you allowed yourself
To be kissed?

He played a guitar, you told me.
And he had long thin fingers, which fluttered,
From string to string.

He wrote you a letter when you left.
And you folded it eight times. Then put it
In your pocket. Tell me, Royina
Did you put it in your heart too?

4. What is it with creative people, Royina?

The writers and the guitarist and the painters.
Do they look at you like you are the magic you are?  
Do they tell you, no, you're not
Who you think you are.
There are so many shades under your skin
Let me peel off your inhibitions, and I'll show you.

5. Royina, their letters never reach you.

And they wonder why, homes are still called

— The End —