I am wearing my brother’s old t-shirt
when I see you dressed in white.
You’re smiling next to her.
You’ve never beamed that way before.

You look so grown up.
The boyish charm all washed up
into the greys of your mind—
where maybe, a picture of me dies.

Funny—this is our end.
You leave my revenge undone.
I imagined it would hurt more.
But my heart is steadily sad.

Treat her better than me.
Keep the other quests at bay.
Have a home.
Have children.
Have laughter.

Maybe,
when I am wearing white,
my smile will prove
that you never existed.

I have lost her love.
I look for her in words—
the words that fill pages
of my stolen diary.

She has a few good days.
She fell in love.
His honey words
made her forget her fear.

He left.
And so did she.

I have lost her love.
I see glimpses of it
when I cook pasta.
In dance, in sweat—
I see it in my eyes.

She seems so far away.
I have lost her love.

I like this place.
I can take three weeks
to change my age.

Happy Birthday.

Now admit it
to the poets—
who don’t really care.

I jumped the gun.
Made the playlist.
Planned the vacation.
Did the work.

Might as well go alone.

I have asked God for thousands of wishes,
None of them were you,
God is adamant too-
She says I’ll only grant the ones
that have no trace of you.

I am in love with tomorrow
The one where I swim oceans,
Write at a bistro in Paris,
Drown my sorrows in Bombay rains.