i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.

they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.

i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.

their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days -
collecting gentle drops of dew,
(your heart)
the peaceful dance
of raindrops on my roof,
(your voice)
the warmth of my bed
on a gray day,
(your arms)
soft sunrays breaking through
dark clouds.
(your smile)

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days -
you,
with an eternity of love,
a gentle tide
to wreck ghost ships of tiredness
that live inside me.
you,
a serene potion to drink
on days when the other stuff
just doesn't work.
you,
head cocked to a side,
laughter clear and calming,
hands sure and soothing.

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days,
it's funny -
they forgot how much i love
the rains.

to shruti krishnan, on her twenty-first birthday

you rest easy
in hidden corners
of obscure library shelves,
your footprints
play with the dust -
disrupting and adorning,
all at once.
you rest easier
in reflections of your
many, many selves,
quiet passion, fierce silences,
bubbling pages in your diary
bursting at the seams,
half-smiled silliness,
half-charmed eyes.

you rest easy
in stony silences -
silences made of
silver filigree thoughts and
bright colourful conversations.

you rest easiest
in shared sparks of comfort -
dancing in and out of both our fingers -
pale yellow sunshine in yours,
and dark blue moonbeams in mine.
you rest easiest
in staccato laughs
and handwritten notes,
for your voice is clearest
when it becomes
the voice in my head.

my words are used to having a destination -
a conversion rate,
      a like-to-click ratio,
              a saved post across timelines.
my words are used to being weighed
in golden showers of praise
by would-be strangers,
by eyes almost in a daze
from the internet and its dangers;
my words are more than happy
to be forgotten the next day -
they get that from me.

what happens when your words
fail to tip the scales
in any direction?
what happens when measuring fails,
and the mercy of others
is your only salvation?
what happens when your words decide
that their life is not one worth living?

if a heart breaks
and bleeds words onto a paper,
but no one reads them,
did it really break?

if words spill onto a page,
but no one saw them being spilt,
was a poem even written?

never and never my boy,
riding away and away
from the land of the hearthstone tales
to never look back,
fear or believe
that a look cast into the past
might trip you up ahead.

never and never my boy,
fear or believe
that your Troubles,
dressed in cloaks of Joy -
snarling and snaking,
roughly and blithely
shall leap -
my boy, my boy -
into a home under new trees
in a sunlit year
to eat your heart
in this house
in your whole new world.

sometimes i make the bed for my bedfellows -
worries and fears are tucked in
quite happily,
and sometimes,
i kiss them goodnight -
with love,
and with the knowledge
that they are asleep,
away from me.

i close my eyes,
and revel in my sleep
knowing that they won't bother me -
i'm not in that deep.
with ease,
i cruise through
the landscape of my mind,
wary of what might face me,
accepting of what i might find.

it is wiser to not challenge
the faces and voices
you hear and see,
you owe it to your dreams,
a half-awake debtor,
it is wiser still,
to happily avoid loss -
the less i know,
the better.

worries and fears
make for strange bedfellows -
they hold your hand,
as if to soothe you,
and then whisper into your ears
a long list of names
of the people who loathe you.

i try not to be bitter,
i try to escape mental quicksands.
but here's when i don't mind
being called a quitter,
at least i have time,
and my own heart in
my own hands.

when my bedfellows turn
to talk to me in the dead of night,
i turn too - a blind eye,
no indication of despair or delight.
it is better that they rest
in a bed together,
i'd like to run as far away as possible -
the less i know,
the better.