Don’t leave me alone,

because every time you smile,
the dimples in your cheeks
come out like commas drawn in my life
reminding me – this is not the end.

Don’t leave me alone

because your whispers add background music
to my otherwise quiet life,
Your fingers choreograph the perspective
of my eyes and make sure hope clings to each corner,
and I learn to hallucinate better than before- it is beautiful.

Don’t leave me alone

because I promise when next time you sit next to me,
my incessant words won’t transform into question marks,
only my eyes will look at you occasionally
in case you miss the talk.

Don’t leave me alone  

because I promise this too,
on the days when you heart is too full
to accommodate the memories of the past,
we will go to your favorite river side
and let them find their way out
into the endless stream.

Don’t leave me alone,

because staring at horizon alone is boring,
besides nobody talks about the expanse of these abbreviated colors
into our lives.

Don’t leave me alone

because I refuse to have a life without you,
may be I should have told you this in the beginning,
instead of writing a poem.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

Keep the windows open, in case it wants to fly away
maybe it is bored of playing hide and seek,
resting in between the empty spaces where even clock does not like to visit.
Keep the lids of sugar containers a little lose,
chances are, it will come back to the ones with whom it closely shares its nature,
How else did you think, there was sweetness in your life.
And do keep the inkpots full, because once it is back,
it might like to take a dip
and scamper its complaints on your skin
like tattoos, permanent tattoos.
It is love after all, and love will find a way.

But what if it does not come back?
Will you go out and look for it,
May be it is disguised in the red of the maple sitting in your garden and you thought it’s the nature,
May be these are its cold feelings soothing your sweaty temples on a hot summer afternoon – yet you moved on cursing the weather,
May be it is the warmth rising in fumes of the bonfire – but you heart is too chilled to feel it,
May be it is resting in your favorite banana walnut cake or folded in the layers of your favorite cheddar cheese risotto – but this only had to be your diet week.

Yes! You were looking, only if you knew where to look.

This time, look inside your heart.
turn off the lights….
hear your heart pounding louder, as if murmuring the prayers secretly,
feel the expanse of your lungs inside your rib-cage, airing the wings of otherwise rested butterflies,
wear its memories like a halo
and know when your feet sweep off the earth
it will arrive.
When the tears trickle from the corner of your eyes
and shine like medals of love under the moon lit sky,
when you will listen to the whispers of a quiet night,
know that it will arrive.
When you sit by the window
fingers scattered precisely to weave into its size,
lips waiting to seal the promise, no ink pots, no quills this time,
know that it will arrive.
When you are sure you don’t have to rely on the sugar containers to keep it by your side,
know that it will arrive.

And hold on this time because you must,
who knows what happens next time.

Observing the uncanny sea waves  
wrestling with each other
proclaim rivalry
as they roar through the buffeting gales
is no less than watching a war.

They rise like jeweled swords
hypnotized by moon lit sky,
pouncing preferably,
piercing through the enemy -bleeding avarice which
coagulates and transforms the silver swaying sheets to smug ridden breath choking dark blankets.

Rhapsodic survivors continue the slaughter
cajoled by dark brown ghosts of the shore
glinting occasionally with gravitated silver shafts,
looking like an enticing bejeweled throne during twilight, mere boulders
anxious to receive its new master and feeling maudlin
for the ones fallen in battle, dead.

Some are left behind and some
reach the destination at last,
forfeiting,
once a powerful individuality
to infinite, anonymous dots
evaporating only to form the clouds of incessant covet
waiting patiently for the seasons to change its course, again.

Makes me wonder, we inspire them or vice versa

-Pallavi

If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert

Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion

Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,

let go

Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.

An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.

A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.

A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.

A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.

Come in, know me better.

-Pallavi

Broken relationships unlike broken bones
don't make noise when they crack,
neither do they shriek out of an unbearable pain.
Their sequence of suffering is different,
beginning at heart with
a discomforting pain at the edges,
moving towards its center and strangle,
spilling the torment from eyes


Broken relationships unlike broken bones
cannot be healed with a plaster cast
or feel better if put to rest.
Though, they unknowingly do repose-
anticipate healing,
which is only a woeful void,
filling back with stronger protests
and irrevocable agony .

But once broken,they all are same
splintered and dejected,
desperate to gather but feeble
seeking refuge in the days of healing.

And once repaired, they are no different,
cracks heal but scars remain,
like trophies screaming the struggle.
Forgotten pain stays nestled in disguised hidings,
longing to come back with a slightest wrench.


Be careful!

-Pallavi

Fear is only a swarm of butterflies
resting inside your lungs secretly,
fluttering, every time you breathe,
impeding the smooth passage of air
provoking fake illusions of fright.

Sooner than you,
your body becomes their much sought adventure
and when they take a flight down to your stomach,
set idioms come to life - " i feel butterfly in my stomach"
making you feeling anxious or anticipate nervously  "what's next?"

Little did you know,
you could pull them back to your lungs
and push them out with your determined breathing
only to see a rainbow erupting from lips,
not falling back in semicircles , but
rising sharp till the horizon,
breaking myths of conventional fears
and germinating new ideas of observing life.

Just- take the charge.

-Pallavi Goswami