I grow old when I have to,
young, when I want to.
I go to reality school with Sandman,
Cupid and Tooth Fairy.
I spin spiderwebs when I’m bored
and sell them off to art houses.
I run a theater in my attic
and put the actors away when I’ve guests.
I deliver single mothers’ babies on Sundays
and name them after my lost lovers.
I trap sunlight in a fishing net, powder it,
mix it with rock phosphate, alfalfa
and feed it to plants in the cities.
I read moods through people’s lips
and tune the piece of sky overhead
to shades of blue, and seldom white.
I put salt in tears, sugar in kisses,
and pepper…to make you sneeze.
I run into the atmosphere to dig out
precious little oddities lost in time
- like dainty coins dropt out of butter fingers,
gift-wrapped kisses flown towards heedless lovers,
paper rockets cut out of vintage tabloids,
and words – all made of gold.
I send them by post to girls with broken hearts,
with a charming story attached to each curio,
as **things lost and found
have a way of restoring faith.

If misplaced sentiments were like pimples
on odd places of the face
then I'd pop each and every one of them
until my face hurt, bled, and got mutilated.
With one of those pimples would go
the sentiments attached
to my otherwise pretty face.
I'd be a happier person.

Into the middle of things, I drive myself daily, and get a bit lost…
Into the midst of your diamond-like words, I push a pebble, and suffer silence.
Into the heart of truth, I send a lie, and die a little.
Into the aura of your presence, I enter, and disappear a little.
Into the bubble of your reality, I squeeze in, and burst at the seams.
Into the light of your being, I step foot, and extinguish a little.
Into you, I am, and I’m gone completely.

If life is like blots of water-colours
on a paper-boat floating all alone
in a little puddle of rain-water
collected in a dent, in a narrow street
open to the sky above;
the colors getting pinched out of the boat
and dissolving in the water
with every slight **** in the pool,
caused by droplets popping into it
from the drenched rooftops overhead…
then you’re like the minute creature,
invisible to man’s naked eye,
sailing alone in that boat and
looking at the gathering clouds above,
afraid if it might rain again soon,
if a careless footstep might fall on the puddle,
if a wanton boy might crush the boat for fun,
most of all,
afraid if the boat might lose all its colors before anything…

I’d be trapped in the ethereal net of your Charm,
neither here nor there, kidnapped,
lost – or technically dis-located,
entangled in your deftly woven labyrinth
of passion and desire.
You’d encode the script for my every move in a
binary language I can only see but not read,
you’d graph the imagery I see in my mind-
short films of you and me and just you,
you’d lay out the days of my life with you
like pages of a book neatly bookmarked,
you’d optimise the color of my emotions-
between deadly sorrow and maddening joy,
you’d make me interesting to read-
like a woman of substance,
you’d come back to tune my background music
everytime I think you’re gone forever,
you’d keep me outside those search engines,
yet I’d get a 1000 hits a day
for you’d be my sole visitor.
I’d be kidnapped, and trapped by you,
I might break down any moment,
yet I’d resist for my love for you.
For you'd be... my WEB-designer.