Do you know I can see you
tucking your fears
behind your ears
as you watch me watching you?

Do you feel your eyes on you,
when I show you the magic
you've stashed away
in all my corners and edges?
Are you moved
when I watch you move
side to side,
from the shores of one insecurity
to another?

Because I do.

I do,
and I do not think anyone so ornately flawed
must strive so hard
to lock up every shard
of themselves
behind every ray of light
you get from me.

Pick up your falling smile,
because I can see two hands
reach out for the parts of you
that complete you.

I watch two eyes
watching every joy
that etches itself
in your skin.
I can hear you dreaming
of perfection,
without realising that
it lives in you.

*And it lives in me.

click
    click
clack
On a white marble floor
If you're a woman,
you already have
one foot out the door
of a room filled with
all the conversation
and opportunities
that a man can afford.

This is a scene we've all seen before.
Paid way less
when you're told
that you worked way more.
I'm sure a client will adore my face
in a meeting,
but what do i do with the horror
when he hears me speaking?

I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny.  
My worth measured
by the distance between
my skirt and the floor.
And when I protest,
politely, of course
Being told that I can do better,
I can be more than a bore.

My skin revolts
From the last time a colleague
brushed his hand accidentally
against my everything.
My strength and independence rot
in catacombs made from begrudging wombs,
waiting for their lives to begin
before building a tomb for another.

My ears hear no corporate conflict.
My eyes read no unjust verdict.
My knees wobble of no panic.
My voice even now is not frantic.
I try to use my woman card as a shield,
But they already know I'll yield
Because sadly
Feminism, safety, and my daily routine
don't get along very well with each other.


If I could stretch myself to my full capacity;
Correction.
If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity,
I'd be taller than these nine yards,
Stronger than this silken thread ,
Darker than this black,
Louder than this naked mic.

My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari.
Uncertain.
      Defined.  
           Redefined.
                Ever changing.
As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint
Dive
Into the storm.

Riot chhod,
I'm a civil war of colour.
Black sari
Black eyes
Black bindi
Golden jhumkas
Red lips
Multicoloured sword at my hip
Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.

Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai,
Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main,
Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye,
Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.

Sometimes,
i wish i had hollows for cheeks
so your hands would brush
an e m p t y s p a c e
filled only with the weakness
that you think i possess.

Sometimes,
i wish my smile revealed
histories of stories untold,
the crux of a plot
now never to unfold,
the heart of soul
that didn't mind going cold.

Sometimes,
i wish i stood a little taller
so i could e
                      s
                         c
                             a
                                  p
                           ­          e
the condescending petting of your hand.

                   floating fingers

                      that land
only to let your fingers glide
along the few strands
of unnecessary ambitions
that run deep in my brain.

Sometimes,
i wish i could shrink
back into the flames
that left me with the thirst for more.
i wish to go to back to the times
that you thought i could not settle a score,
when you saw me as weaker than i was before
when you thought that
my only refuge was
the cold hard floor.

Sometimes
i think that you hold me -
all 5-feet-nothing-chubby-cheeks-childish-smile-bulging-tummy-old-l­oose-clothes
i think that you hold me
to a lower standard than what i started out with.

Sometimes,
you make me want to scream
my strength out.

Sometimes,
i feel like breaking forts and castles purely made of doubt.
Sometimes,
i even wonder what a book about me be about?
an above average worker
or a little girl with a big mouth?

Sometimes,
you make me want to underachieve -
to grieve for my triumphs,
because now,
they need to sit in full public view.

***** you.

I talk at the speed of trees
that pass you
on a train journey.
Hundreds of thoughts
planted
tall,
loud,
incessant.
 I don't expect you listen to me,
I don't expect you to notice,
but then you pick out
one leaf
from the twenty-eigth branch
of the twelfth tree
 and ask me why
it's painted a deep scarlet.
And there's n o t h i n g
that stops me from turning that hue too.


*"To Stop Train, Pull Chain"

There's few spaces
in this world where
a sea of faces
doesn't scare me.
There's fewer spaces
in this world where
the faces turn up
to me and smile -
real, actual smiles -
and not the fake ones for shady profiles.

I love you guys.

I see Open Eyes -
filled with a thirst
to know more,
see more,
be more,
be better than before.
Eyes that do not blink
at the introduction of something new, views that don't flinch
when given something
to think about.

I see Open minds -
welcoming the creation
of a brand-new world,
one where art doesn't
have to shuffle along the sidelines
of a room,
where society can leave
 its guidelines at the door.
 I'm sure that we here,
today,
are the first to realize
that art creates a life
beyond the arbitrary
beating of hearts.

We're children
 of the first thinking generation,
 catching on to swinging anchors
from sinking ships
 to swim up and
 breathe in the first gulps of art.

two eyes looking for hope
two arms reaching out for you
one heart - empty handed.

I cross seas
of tired backs
with broken bones
and stretching haversacks.
an ocean of people
f l i n c h i n g
 at invisible attacks
from a faceless few,
a layer of dew
s e t t l i n g
on morphing faces.

veins that appear
blue,
   green,
       yellow,
            red
on the skin of this city
often pop out and disrupt it.

where lives change
as easily iron tracks,
where lives are organised
into shelves and racks,
when a chain pulled
is a life lost,
or
losing.

my brain is useless.
it is my eyes
that run over
the edges of your mouth,
greeting the sky,
when i watch you
watch the birds
fly towards
their innocent idea
of a home.

my brain is useless.*
my ears hear
the quiet sound
of your laughter,
when it tries to peek
through a steady stream
of my babbles.

my brain is useless.
it is my arms
that i trust
to not miss a single second
of encapsulating your
every word,
   every glance,
       every movement
        that you lavish
        on me.

my brain is useless.
it is my words
that do not fail me -  
i can dress you up
in the prettiest allegories,
the most mesmerising
of metaphors,
the most flattering adjectives.

my brain is useless,
but you
have the power
of rendering all my syllables
an extravagant waste,
an unnecessary hindrance,
with
one
   single
       word.

*(or maybe three)

i stand out
in any room
like the only exception
to any rule.
i recklessly disobey
the sciences,
math,
and art.
i stand apart
like every wobbly word
in a sentence
that lives
in a secondhand copy
of a book.

i am not easy to look for
in a room
full of talent, though.
i  h i d e
between the pauses
in a conversation that
i shouldn't be interrupting.
when you talk about
art
   and love  
        and life
all I'd like to do
is
hide.

besides,
i could never belong
in the same sentence
as any of the great artists
that you talk about.

so i stick to the walls
i line the sidelines
with a fraction of my presence
- one thirds of me
simmering away at
the bottom of the sink.

i think I'm the only exception
to a world-wide rule.

You are the silence
in an overflowing room,
overlooking the brim of
the glasses full of art that
are about to s p i l l forth
from you able hands. i am
the low murmur of voices,
ebbing through an empty
room - no shortage of
"excuse me"s or of
cleared throats.

You are love, when love
disguised itself as ink and
ran freely through pages
in lines that looked a lot
like poetry, only if
one looked. i am the short
staccato splutters of syllables
splattering and spoiling
fresh canvases of pure
imagination - rendering them
u n c l e a n,
        u n u s a b l e,
                u n d e s i r a b l e

you and i, we swirl through
pages and mics and minds
and crowds and rooms and blinds
like no shackles forged from doubt
could ever bind us.

Sunday would knock on our window pane - repeatedly.
once
  twice
     thrice

once -
sneaking out of her place
in the weekly schedule,
Sunday tip toes,
t i p p y t o e s,
into the bedroom -
she sees a troll's rule
on the floor,
almost picks up a broom,
but then lets go.

twice -
creeping into the kitchen
now - takeout pizza on the counter,
unimaginable amounts of sugar,
a pile of dishes flowing like
a fountain -
the chaos seems to amaze her.

thrice -
we've woken up, so she
skirts the living room walls.
as I untangle my arms from your hair
she sees your eyes rise to me-
then fall.

*"Five more minutes?"

nothing.

not any thing.

no single thing.

you see? the dictionary can't tell you what nothing means, and I expect me to have the answer. the only travesty is that I indeed know what nothing is.

nothing is the first blade of grass
that withers away come summer.
you thought you could play on lush greens, but dead dry leaves are a ******.

nothing is also the bottom of a
once-full glass - you emptied its
contents thinking "this too, shall pass".

nothing is the first page of a diary
that you intended to keep. it is now
used as a paperweight, a place for
dust to sleep.

nothing is the first lie you ever
learned to tell - to bravely decorate
your face with a smile even if your pockets are filled with hell.

my personal favourite definition -
nothing is the space I occupy
on your overworked mind - I try
hard to look for traces of me but
they seem impossible to find.

Missing Someone*
is the name
given to the space beside you
that you assign to
someone else.

do I remind you of a summer's day?
does the memory of my eyes
slip between your skin
and your clothes,
teasing your spine
gently,
working its way
to the small of your back?

(small, like me - haha)

do my bad jokes
make you see my curly hair,
my crumpled figure,
all scrunched up
in the middle of numbers
that you can read
but don't register?

do my words flood your brain
and corrupt
whatever you're listening to,
adding my accents here,
and contorting languages there?
do your sentences lose count
of the number
of tongues they're made of?

Missing Someone
is the name
given to the space beside you
that you assign to
someone else.

does my taste of my laughter
linger in the air
beside you?

oh but my love is not
a red, red rose.
i chose to replace
every tear on my face
with dying embers
of every memory
you said you would remember.

i trust
that you must know
that i am not a summer's day,
i will never play
at being warm
or temperate.

you can berate
me for not knowing
whether i am to be
or not to be,
but forgive me
if i don't play by the rules
and exit
the right stage
in a wrong scene.

it just means
that your music
is not the food of my love.
i will continue to shove
your thoughts
under a carpet of denial.

do not throw away
any vial you might find
in my room,
you sealed my doom
when you stomped down
that staircase,
tripping on the last time
we went for a walk.

my face doesn't run
smooth like the course of love,
you should have known
this truth.

my eyes are not rose petals,
my heart not a white dove,
my love
when they say hell is empty,
they haven't been inside
my mind -
here
you'll find horrors
of a sweet kind.

Sleep caresses the
corners of my covers
stumbling over the pile
of clothes that I left
from yesterday's encounters
with the city.

Sleep tumbles over
the corners of my bed
stubbing her pinky toe
in this hurried process.
she has to reach me
before my brain takes over.

Sleep rushes in
before i have the chance
to say
.

it feels so easy to
hurriedly pen down a bunch
of you-centric words
huddled together like
cold syllables around the
last embers of an idea
that i had a minute ago.

it sure doesn't take effort
to weave you in and out
of clever metaphors
concealing you from the world
but letting you shine
for those who know you -
a blanket of fractured sentences.

it comes all too naturally to me -
making your every movement
into a monument constructed
from love and letters -
letter by broken letter,
love by broken love.

it is so easy
to cheat on poetry.
all i have to do is trap
your last word to me
between ink and paper
and watch you struggle
to ever leave these
paper confines.

it is so easy to cheat on poetry.

one name
  followed by an address
      with a number below it
         and unapologetic confessions
        
that's all it takes to
lend wings to your words
so they may go and caress
their memories.

you scroll through stories
that you don't care about
that don't matter to you
and they never will

you talk about love as if
you're done with seeing your
fair share of it - as if
you haven't touched it
and it hasn't touched you
and it never will

इश्क़ मोहब्बत धोखे जुदाई से जूझते दिखते हो -
क्या कभी किसी के लिए दो शब्द एक खत पर लिखते हो?

old men settle
like the last ashes
of a strongly worded editorial
in a newspaper -
burnt,
crumbling,
but carrying reminders
of words once powerful.

old men huddle
in centres
that have long since lost
their magnetism.
centres that once drew
the most powerful thoughts -
now host
shuffling cards,  
     shuffling gaits,
          shuffling shoulders.

old men whisper
wars can be won
and fortunes can be lost
with all that they have to tell you
if only you
listen
observe
absorb.

old men gather like continents
much like the mass of land
holds everything above it -
rooted
stable
*sure

I save up the best ideas for a poem
in a bank,
trading thoughts like currency,
hoarding the best ones
for birthdays and
rainy days.

i count the amount of effort
each one will take
with two interests -
one being the love i invest in you,
and
the other being the joy
of your reaction
that i get back.

i keep thinking that one day
i ought to save up my words
and my thoughts
to string them together like a necklace
not of pearl, but of precious things -
memories, stolen smiles, lost glances.
i try to save my poetry for you,
only to end up poor at the end of the day.

oh but how not to feel like a pauper when i lavish my last words on you?

There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
knowing
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
and
move on.

Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
and
move on.

Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
and
move on.

My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.

and this time,
*i stay

What a funny thing to be Time,
To go back in history and change any rhyme,
To make "yours" into "thine",
But never you into mine,
What a funny thing to be Time.

Poetry carries the weight of
ten thoughts,
     nine feelings,
        eight emotions,
                seven sins,
                     six thoughts,
                         five complaints,
                            four heartaches,
                                three joys,
                                  two heavy eyes,
                                       one pouring soul.

Poetry fights her way
through layers
and layers of jargon,
through depths
of useless words just floating,
skimming the surface of nothing.
she claws her way
through overgrown shambles
and tangles
of unnecessary parts of speech.

Poetry slashes her way
through tumbling creepers
falling from broken terraces.
she drives away unimportant thoughts
from fertile fields of words.

i see Poetry survive against all odds -
against joy - that sweet, sweet burden.
against rationale - a double edged sword
against doubt - a ghoulish green monster

i see Poetry survive.
no, rejuvenate.

and then i know
why poetry takes a feminine pronoun.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming something.
a narrow lane moulding the setting,
a small street lined with people,
a great big road paved with dramatic pauses.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming anything.
crossing seas
with w a v e s of laughs
lining the shore,
traversing plains
with fields of memories
growing tall,
climbing steep ghats
with a mountain of sorrow
on one side,
a        v
              a
                 l
                   l
                     e
                        y
                           of fears
                            below.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming everything.

i m a g i n e

a lapping wave,
sea of ink colours pages
today is poetry

याद पिया की आए

i  miss you.
my disgruntled face,
constant gnarling at the sun
might have already betrayed
how much i hate the summer.

i hate the summer,
i miss you.

i miss your movement across the earth
as you
t i p t o e / march,
tread lightly* / thunder in,
caress / trample,
r e j u v e n a t e / strangle.

most of all,
i miss you because
i wish you would rush in,
darken the skies with clouds
like kajal for a goddess.
shove the sun
under a celestial carpet
woven from cool water
and colder skies.

i miss you.
my hatred for the sun
only progresses with the months
till july, till you descend.

they say that when love arrives,
you can hear a hundred violins,
you can see the colours in every living thing.
when you arrive,
i see only joy -  
pure liquid joy.

i miss you.

single book of matches
gonna burn what's standing
in the way
a lone flame might look like
a pitiful part of an inferno
that perhaps was,
but never will be
a l i v e.
you can try to magnify
warmth into heat
using all sorts of transparent things -
one* - a glass,
two - your face that can't hide what you think,
three - the lone tear the dresses your cheek in the night;
but let me know
when you succeed at
caressing cold embers into
a living, breathing fire.

burned out flames
should never re-ignite,
but i thought you might
i hoped to the patron saint of
hopelessness that you weren't
beyond her saving grace.
**** falling stars, i wished on
burning planets to see
if i could salvage the last light
from their core
to plant their fire in yours.

*i will never be your cornerstone

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.

The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n

the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
    upon layers
         upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n

i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n

What do i do, then?

Then, i run.

i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.

You find an old trunk
In the attic of your nani's house.
Bravely braving the dust and
Creepy cobwebs, you tip toe,
t i p p y t o e
towards this testament to the ages.
On the heavy, heavy lid
lie the introductions of old stories -
tucked beneath discarded truths
and gilded lily lies.
You push the heavy lid up
like the brave, brave child that you are.
The only sounds -
a massive groan,
and the absence of your breath.

Tucked within are treasures.

The first layer -
a thin film of castles
royal drawbridges,
a high tower,
several dozen horses,
gold necklaces,
of Kings and Queens,
and the in-betweens.

A second sheath
Decorated with tales of conquests,
a victory here and there,
tales of rigid tests,
a problem to be solved
by the truly good,
and the uniquely pure.

The last layer sits happily at the bottom.
An age-old invitation to all
who seek solace.
Mumma's old dolls sit beside
Nani's soft sarees,
faded like her hair,
and like her memory.
This layer gives warmth.

No, it is warmth.

The last layer awaits your weary heart,
It holds the secret art of
curing every bad day.
This layer will caress your worries
And fold them into
itself
         into oblivion,
or perhaps
into a Happy Ending.

To tell you the truth about travel, I hate it.
Someone once told me
that travel is a compromise
for teleportation.
Everything
is basically a compromise
until higher tech arrives.
To tell you the truth about travel,
I really don't want to.
I want to let you hold my image
against long winding roads,
against the sad shrubbery
by the side of the highway,
and believe
that I'll be happy
when I'm not at home.
My loud voice and excited manner
may even trick into believing
that I adore the hustle bustle of a new place,
new people,
     new traffic,
           new smells,
                sights,
                      sounds.
But to tell you the truth, I really hate travelling.

Save me from suffering the pains
of packing a bag
with the most essential items
designed to make you look like
a Prudent Traveller™ - I want to carry
only my fatigue
and annoyance
at being asked to move out.
(Some Hajmola, perhaps - the green and purple flavours)

I am not seduced by lines on a map
telling me where to go,
and how to get there,
I swear.

I would rather have
someone trace the edges
of imaginary continents
across my mind
by virtue of their words.

Cartographers aren't redundant to the world,
perhaps - but have you ever had
a laid back holiday with
only
*i n t e r m i t t e n t naps?

You'll ask me why I go back to memories every time. Well here's my answer.

Soft sunshine played
with your golden hair,
teasing your eyes
and my heart
into imagining
all kinds of art near the sea shore.

Doodles of the lone yellow blossom
pepper all my books
from the last time
your loving looks
swept like waves across my messy hair.

I couldn't help but stare
when you looked across the sea
to the other side,
and we wondered
why gaps are never deep,
they're always w i d e.

And the melting music
that flowed between us
showed me that
silence with silent notes
from me to you
are better than
the violence of interactions,
that my thoughts f
                                  l
                                      o
                                          w
                                              d
                                           o
                                     w
                                 n
                         in words,
and your words in f/r/a/c/t/i/o/n/s.

Matching your pace
through hooded lanes,
wooded alleys,
your laugh made me
want to find warmth
in every valley in my heart.
Our hands on fresh book spines,
touching worlds far,
                                     far away,
the two of us drunk
on the wines of company and conversation.
If touching words that made no sense
to either of us were a dream,
honey I'd like to flash it across every screen.

You'll ask me why
I go back to memories of you
every
single
time,
and I'll tell you
that our time is sacred, jaan.
All my hours are yours
and you are mine.

You are the waves
b r e a k i n g
against the sea,
You are the golden sunshine.

I'll **** you out someday.
When tangles of roots
and tangles of branches
and tangled wisps of every breath
we took together lie
tangled in the wild grass,
brushing our knees.
Please believe.*

One day, I'll **** you out.
Poison Ivy of your thoughts
runs up and
d
o
w
n
all sorts of walls,
there's ivy draped crumbling pillars
to every hall,
and poison dripping out of your mouth
and I feel
small.

But trust me - one day, I'll **** you out.
Secrets lie in every stalk of
seacress you stole from the sea
to dress underwater labyrinths
that you planted in my barren mind.
Secretive looks wound up
in secret sighs and
secret smiles,
and what do you think
and what do I feel,
all locked up
inside sea green boxes.

Of course you're leaving my space,
I told you,
I'm weeding you out.
There's moss on gates
that have held shut cemeteries of loss.
Moss covered stones line pathways
that crisscross to form the shape of you
thinking about the afterlife.
Moss greets cold concrete
with promises of lost stories of you,
recounted with
every
mood
I've ever seen you in.

I know I keep saying this,
but I will **** you out.
Till then,
I'll save the darkness
under light leaves
for an eve that talks to me
of the wonders you held in your eyes.
Leaves that will ease me
into sleeves of warmth
made from the last time
your arms found mine.
Till then,
the last light from your words
will fight to shine through the overgrown grass,
now knee high,
till I can sight it
from a 100
                 light
                        years
                                away.
Till then,
the seeds of a heart you planted
will start sprouting into a mighty tree,
its branches spreading
a r t
across time and space.

I'll **** you out someday.
But that day is **not today.

you are gentle breeze on
a seashore, and i am small
flitting pebbles stuck in the
sand, shuffling in and out
with the lazy tide. You are
the unending pools of blue
under a cerulean sky, and i
am small ripples of information
across a canvas made of you.

You are the familiar strum of
a gentle guitar on a slow Sunday
evening when the wind tries to
sing songs of me and you, and i
am the trembling, faltering voice
trying to challenge this wind to
a duel of hopelessness.
You are a slow walk in leaf-
covered alleys sheltered from
a busy life, and i am anxious skips
crossing the road, but only looking
at you.

You are the steady gaze of a
warm feeling spreading in my
heart, and i am nervous flits and
distracted movements, a shaking
body, and a cool heart.
You are the welcoming silence
into which my words fold
themselves, covered up with
blankets stitched with sighs,
and you tuck them all in.

And i,
i am the clutter of syllables,
against an electric sky under
which we sit in peace - draped
in rambling silences. Your search
for more, my search for less,
your heavy eyes, and my quivering
voice.

And we both go down together.

We've been this way for a very long time, we've been together for more time than you can imagine. Little weary chains link our minds, looping in and out and up and down. We're this tangled mess of synced thoughts and synced dreams, and sinking syllables. 

Every sigh that you let slip from your tired lips is an indication of my exhaustion, because you and I, we lie in comfortable tessellation.

You and I, we've been through magical realism, and the romantics, and the surrealists, the grammar nazis and the pretenders.

You and I, we've etched each other in shifting sands, in clumsy waves.

You and I, we know each other's movements across a blank sheet of paper.

You waltz onto empty pages with constellations for punctuation. Screens may read verbose sacrifices to the patron saint of inspiration, but you, you don't stop or pause to check for abbreviation.

You take half hearted syllables and turn them into poetic nations, you build monuments to love but you neglect infatuation.

You try to touch every single figment of my overactive imagination but then you shuffle away so as not to cause complete annihilation.

You speak lucid languages in times of complete inebriation and you continue this slurred speech against all drunk invitations.

You try to write me down in moments of utter desperation but the grip of your words falter as I run to my wild desolation. 

You and I, we've run across clouds, left our footprints in the wake of comets.

You and I, we've sailed all the seas of consciousness, those that can be fathomed, and otherwise.

Slowly, your step exceeded mine, and your stride was longer, so I struggled to keep time. Slowly, I felt our tangles unwind. Slowly, our roots straightened out in a single line and you crossed it.
You crossed it.

Un Saut dans le vide, a leap into the dark, and you were up, up and away. I wanted to trap you in cunning similes, but you were running as fast as the wind.

Little weary chains that linked our minds now struggle at the seams, tiny links begin to
unlink,
unlink,
unlink.

one
by
one
by
one.

you are swirling pools
of azure, and i am the
noiseless motion of the
sea, and we shout into
the nothingness. you
are foam upon the
crest of a wave, and
i am a shell stuck in
the sand; always
shifting, but never to
disappear. you are tepid
vapor rising from the
sea, and i am sea cress
on the coast, both
clouding vision in one
instant, vanishing in
another. you are the
dipping sun, orange
as it drowns, and i am
shafts of red, flowing
over and spilling onto
warms sands, and we
both go down
together.

Now
i am one
with
the air.
i float up,
ever so light,
to greet the pale blue
dream that awaits me above.

Now i am a cloud
un  nuage, una nube
एक बादल, nubes
i am one with the cold drops,
i am one with these headwinds,
i am one with the heavens.

Now i shall stir
i hear the peacocks
wailing
in anticipation,
waiting,
waiting for me to
to gather strength,
to g r o w in size
till i finally descend
thundering,
quivering,
carrying fierce energy
  in my arms.
   i cradle her gently,
              and then she
     tears through
  my dark expanses
a flash of light,
to momentarily
illuminate
the fields.

Now
i could crash down
with all my might
and bore h o l e s
in steady rocks,

or i could be that
   life-giving shower,
        caressing
          the earth,
              landing gently
                   *to rejuvenate

You are vibrant patterns
of colored star-dust, and
I am a mute spectator.
You are streams of clouds
bursting with music, you
rain pure joy, and I, a
welcoming blossom.
You are infinite pools of
pink affection and I am
a blank sheet. You are
the movement of life in
the skies and I, an observer
on the ground. You are
sensitive ideals and I
am malleable motion.
You are incessant love
and i am staccato
acceptance. You are
clear head space and i
am poorly articulated
mumbling. You are all
the color, all the joy, all
the love. I am scribbled
footnotes in browning
novels.

In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.

He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.

The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.

The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.

The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.

The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.

His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.

The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.

The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.

You are reckless colour
and I'm the muted grey
backdrop to you riot.
I let you run wild
while you carry the world
on your tired back,
dripping paint on the
canvas of space and
time. You paint universes
in sorrow, stars in
exhaustion; you drown
oceans in skies and
raise mountains on
plains. You are wild
imagination and I'm
the steady flow of
words to keep you
solemn company. You
are the last dregs of
chaos, strong and pure,
and I am the smell of
an old room, always
there, forever constant,
forever lingering. You
are great joys sprinting
across the canvas and
I'm the borders that
you leave on the
windowsill. You are
violent song, trembling
tears; I am the quiet nod
of a great tree as it listens
to the whispering wind.
You are a million sparks
of power, behind a dam
of subtlety, and I am the
river, waiting for time to
pass. You are autumn, or
what it feels like to fall,
and I am the warm summer
with my joyous abandon.

You and I are forever in
balance; you observing me,
me writing you down.

Je serai poète et toi, la poésie.*
I will be the poet and you, the poetry.

But it is not the words
That I scribbled out in arduous hand,
The slopes of my letters,
That quite encompass
The ***** of you leaning against
The pane of my window in the rains.

Nor is it the soft cursive
In which I gently wrote down
Your expression when a flake of snow
Soft and tender;
Rustling through the branches of fir
To land on your nose,
Ever so gently;
That can quite tell the world
What your clear laughter does
To an hour of gloom.

I knew then,
That my mind, with its fractured
Concepts disjoint syllables and tripping verse might not be capable
Of putting pen to paper
And recall your fiery eyes,
When they pierce the veil of
Young melancholy
And beckon me to act my age,
And not a morbid royal spinster.

And I thought of how you knew
In far more precise details how
After a weary day, I flopped down
On to the couch in monotonous exhaustion
Wiping my brow, shaking off the
Metaphorical dust.
You knew, far better than me,
The blurred movements of my hands
As I traced words in the air.

I watched you watch me
Move and I watched as you noted
The crest of every breath I took.

And I thought.

Tu sera poète et moi, la poésie.
You will be the poet and I, the poetry.

Begin anew.
Start afresh.
I want to go
to a place
where there is nought
but my heart
splayed out like
waves over the rocky beach.

My emotions will flow as
the waves caress,
gently,
each grain of sand,
every grain of sand
in the teeming lifelessness
of the sea
that cannot be
fathomed.

The tides ebb
and the tides
flow;
but the water moves not.
It is still and will be,
for change does not
skim the beach.

Begin anew?
Start afresh?

You try it first.

The waves will,
for once,
wait
and
watch.

Anyone would be upset, right?

You took a slice of my cake,
It took me seven hours to bake.
Red Velvet is hard to learn,
That one slice, one should earn.

The vanilla layer was hard to lay out
At least five times, I was wracked by doubt,
Whether the cream-to-butter was three or four
And the icing or the colouring comes before.

No, steal the extra crust you can,
I don’t need it anyway in the pan.
What I wanted was the tiny sprinkles,
That you licked off without a ******.

Go away, don’t touch my cake.

Your neck is bruised and red and raw,
dear dream.
Your pulse is feeble, last that I saw,
dear dream.
Your eyes, they have lost that light,
dear dream.
Your soul has given up this fight,
dear dream.

This you know in your heart,
dear dream.
That you were never meant to be a part
of the soaring hope and flourishing start
expected of you by them,
dear dream.

The noose,
It tightens around your neck,
dear dream.
They’re telling you you’re a wreck,
dear dream.
You are given marching orders, ‘
dear dream.
You are given reckless borders,
dear dream.

The noose,
It tells you how to feel,
dear dream.
It tells you when to heel,
dear dream.
And when I tell you to run,
dear dream.
Catching you will not pass for fun,
dear dream.

The noose,
Waits for you in light and dark,
dear dream.
Waits to douse that spark,
dear dream.
Flee, my dear,
dear dream.
Hide, my dear,
dear dream.

The noose,
It waits patiently for its due,
dear dream.