You’re prosperity, I’m wisdom.
I could count.
You could walk into my castle of dreams.
I write you out.
You fill my life with the riches of your eyes.
My words may not live long.
But, love, your eyes will never die.
The way they have become the sunshine outside my window never will.

Wisdom and Prosperity.
If we’re fools, we’ll part.

I write words on you
with my fingers running along your skin,
chasing the sun's rays.

It's too early too tell if you're likely
to be tickled by the idea of staying.
I am comfortable in my own skin
(on yours),
so I don't have to beg.

As long as your eyes are closed,
we can dream of better things --
knots we can always untie,
flights we can always afford
and distances we can always ignore.

Where would I rather be, you ask?
Nowhere I know is better than home.
Nowhere I know is home,
as long as home is someone I know.

Do I deserve better?
Do I really deserve better than not sleeping
because I am talking to myself?
Do I deserve sanity?
Do I deserve the insanity that comes
with leading a life without you?
What was it like before you?

On a long scale that life and the universe make together --
I divide the time between before you and after you.
Or should I say since you?

Maybe I love you because I'm afraid to be alone.
Maybe I love you to be alone.

Hey

       Hi

Was just thinking of you

        Yeah, me too

Talk about your day

         Tell me about yours

While away some time before night falls.
The thing about desire is that the night dresses it up better.
Desire looks ***** during the day and I remain in rags till you;
till you say hello.
I’m boring, I pick the bed.
But, when you’re the same kind of boring, you fit like spoons in a kitchen drawer
and love, I am a small spoon.
I can only contain so much inside me that remembers details
of the spots on your neck,
or of the things you lost,
and the things you found
and the things I am to you.

It’s raining here.

  It’s raining here too.

You would have loved this weather.

                          Someday, I promise.

The promise of someday hangs over my heart like the blade of a guillotine waiting to strike.
I’ve made lists of the things I’d wear and the things we decide we’d rather not.
There are dark crevices and open spaces under greying skies where I’d hold you
to warn you I always have cold feet
and hope you offer to stay closer
or really, just stay.
Plead and please are not that far apart.
And God, I love it when you do both.
My fragile self breaks under the spell of desire mixed with the magic
of pixelated eyes I swear I can see right through.
That was when
I (you) found you (me) crawling under my (your) skin.

I miss you.

                  I miss you too.

I want you so much.

         More than you think.

We’ll count our dreams between sighs
and fall asleep in the arms of
your nights and my mornings
Enveloped only by the sounds of our own breathing
and the beep of the phone.

Is there a way to get the touch of a hand out of your head?
There is no one who has truly been touched and forgets the feeling.
What do I say of your touch
except that I crave it?
I'm clutching at air here.
I'd like a hand to hold instead.

What is the cost of using up all your courage before you think you really need it?
You have nothing to lose so you pull off things you're not sure you can handle anymore.
Your heart has gone down a road
that you cannot walk back on.
You're blinded in a city that's got nothing but darkness to offer.
Your heart's not in the right place,
but you're hoping the light at the end of a tunnel is not an urban myth.
You dream of the eyes that were your only light when you could see.
You let it fill you up.
So what if you've lost courage?
Find hope.

Here's the thing--
I don't like to lie.
So, if you asked me where I am from,
I'd have to assess you and your prejudices before announcing in a single breath --

"I am a Malayali from Bombay raised in Saudi Arabia."

My identity comes in as a triple threat.
And people treat me like an escaped convict
"Oh, how many burqas do you own?"
"Four, and they're still not enough to save me from your ridiculous questions."

I don't like to lie.
So, I'll tell you I've had a terrible day
and the best thing that happened to me today was lunch.

I will voluntarily admit that my feet hurt in those shoes
And I'd rather be at home.
But, my pen refused to stop writing.

I choose not to wrap my truths in acceptability
Because my identity does not need to be graded
(not like I deserve less than an A+)
I decided to let my bottom sit on a throne in my own mind
Rather than at the feet of self-proclaimed lords of the universe
I'll fix my sights on what's here today.

I'm a queen of my own will;
Of shoes that fit
and jeans that never will.

I am also confused and I write to confuse some more.
Maybe I'll just wrap myself in words
And hand myself over to you and say --
"Congrats! It's a story."