my days love to count themselves
on hands of a clock -
not time, not hours and minutes, no -
but the passing by of days
and running by of nights.

my days love to shapeshift
as i wake up -
from being nebulous cotton-candy noise,
to words that can broken down in
any given table or flowchart of your choice.

my days love starting with the very thought of beginnings.
what gives me strength is stacking up
on little, little tasks -
breathing too, becomes too big of an ask
if not jotted down before bright sunlight can attack me.

i love the idea of a routine,
to have a dedicated slate,
every day,
to wipe clean.
i love the comfort of knowing,
the idea of carefully sowing seeds
of whatever my body needs to do,
and my mind must dwell on.

my days, you see,
love being the last lines of colour
inside a drawing's border.
skipping beats is only useful to a heart in love,
the rest of my worlds demand law and order.

Some love was made for the lights

Love is a four letter word
that has mastered the art of bringing
every other word to its knees.
Every other syllable begs and pleads,
every other thought is wounded and bleeds,
and love carries on,
healing and hurting over and over.
This love is meant for stories
that don't end once the curtain falls.
This love demands  all eyes, all hearts,
and whatever few tears are left to give.
This love will dance on cemeteries of hurt,
finding sure footing in the dirt and dust
of whatever loneliness came before it.
Some love asks that you greet it with pride,
with hope, and half a handwritten letter.
Love will ask that you do nothing more, but
act like you've been here before.

Some kiss your cheek and goodnight
Love draws back the curtains just enough,
so that the gentlest of light falls
on sleepy faces.
This love shifts just a little so you and I
can sit in leaf-hooded lanes and talk about
absolutely nothing.
This love is the ghost of your hand in mine
when I cross the street.
This love asks for sweet slow surrenders,
for arms and hearts - open and tender.
This love grows with you and me,
unfurling and curling around silences
that are your old friends and my peaceful dead-ends.
Some love wants nothing more than
dandelion days and no-plan nights.
Love will comfort you and your weary eyes,
and ask you to
come back to bed.

You are bright orange sunsets,
and I am the dipping glow
over the horizon
when no one's looking.

You are fields of flowers
and a flying phulkari dupatta,
and I am the mandolin's four notes.
You are the power
of perfect plum lipstick,
and I am trying to learn
to take beauty in my stride.

You are all the joy
in a 90's bollywood song,
and I'm trying to catch up to the beats.

You are the changing of the seasons,
a single-handed romantic autumn,
one scent of the rains embracing the earth,
and I am the blissful passerby.

We both drown in danced-away evenings with loved-away songs,
and wished-away wishes.

You are bursts of joy
spread across the sky,
and I am a dumbstruck witness.
You are elegance
draped in nine yards of whatever battles you last conquered,
and I am lucky enough to watch you walk.
You live in the depths of happy explosions of stars,
and I make my home
in your wonders.
You are the strength
of a thousand sunny days,
and I am the memory
of rains on the earth.
You are the everlasting promise
of a shoulder to rest on,
and I am a weary traveller.

You are the light of so many lives,
and I am a shivering flame
hoping to stay in yours.

We are both dancing in the downpour, drenched in love,
awash in our own glow.

I will hide myself in cute gifs
on your phone, I will live in the tone of your happy voice,
I will make my home in "what if
she was here",
I will lurk in the background noise
in your earphones.

I will secretly settle down
on the collar of your white shirt,
I will quietly circle around the small of your back,
I might lack subtlety,
but my invasions won't be seen,
they won't hurt.

I will pull covers over my head,
I will snuggle into your perfume,
my hair tangled
with ghosts of your fingers,
A loving web lazily designed.
I will make my bed in your dreams - sleep and I are old, old friends
- I'm sure she won't mind.

I will draw up a chair next to you,
in the hopes that you let me stay
and if you get used to my company, forget that the chair was empty anyway.

Gushing breath,
joyous death,
toes half-dipped in happiness,
your secret signatures on my neck,
I am a function of the love you give me,
a happily bruised in-love wreck.

I sway to so many tunes,
I dance like so many sand dunes,
all you do is draw a horizon across my waist,
and I can taste the last dregs of unbound tears of joy,
hidden away at the back of my throat, love is a four letter word made of your two arms around mine.

Dorothy's lucky charm, my own invisible shield,
your presence dissolving in mine,
and mine in yours,
your lips on my forehead,
twenty years healed,
twenty more sealed
and tucked away.

We're built with lego pieces of light and love, and I have an eye for the little things.

Sea of turning heads,
burning glances,
semi-hidden shadow romances,
child's aisle-play-prance-dances,
on-screen France, off-screen trances,
eyes on you,
you practicing in-love stances,
one-second-when-no-one-is-looking chances,
slipped sights,
speakers-are-too-loud, a/c-too-cold circumstances,
your eyes on me,
my heartbeat on the screen's expanses.

Plots, characters, twists, turns, music,  
Arm, shoulder, skin-
Advances, advances, advances.