(I am sick of writing love poems for you, so here’s another)*


Do not fall in love with me, I am a poet.

I’ll scrawl down your every word,

Your most innate gestures,

Your bent and whims;

That you will grow conscious of your natural being,

About how your skin breathes,

You’ll run your fingers down your face wondering if you are even normal.


Do not fall in love with me, you’ll hate me.

I’ll write about you incessantly and obsessively.

When I’ll hold your face to kiss you,

I’ll leave ink stains on your aerial lips.

I’ll write till my fingers weep and lungs rip apart.


Do not fall in love with me, you’ll feel empty.

Because I’ll kiss this crooked stick between my fingers more than your lips;

This pale paper brighter than your smile.

I won’t smell of perfumes and lilies,

But ink and *** and cigarettes.


Do not fall in love with me, I am a greedy scribbler.

I’ll make your every colloquy an artwork (against your will)

That you’ll crave normalcy.

I’ll stay awake to watch you sleep at night

For my words, for my penniless art.

I’ll feed on you like a parasite,

I’ll script your existence in my veins,

You’ll have nothing of your own.


Do not fall in love with me,

There will be days when you’ll be talking to me in a fine-looking coffee shop

But I won’t be listening,

Because I’d be writing in my head, nodding along, smiling mindlessly

And your soul will ache.


Do not fall in love with me because more than anything

I want to be an obsessive writer.

I’ll forget your name,

Thinking if I should call my character Kurt or Keith.

You will feel trivial and ignored.


Do not fall in love with me,

I won’t love you like an ordinary girl,

I will be self-absorbed and oblivious.

But oh my darling, my flame, do love me, else I’ll have nothing to live for.

The world, the norms, these people

Mechanized, synchronized, too perfectly fit,

Living corpses all around

Who know nothing beyond black and white.



“What about me?” grey asks.

Why is white peaceful, black ugly and grey oblivion?

I exist.

I do.

I am.

I have.


In the room of your mind where where the door is white and walls are black

Look at the colour of the ground under your feet.

It’s all me, it’s all grey.

Sit there and consume me,

Think about me, sleep with me

And you will  be alive.



Grey is confusion

Grey is chaos

Grey is a beautiful mess,

I am grey and so is my mind.

I have forgotten your countenance

The swing in your voice

The blink of your eyes

The smile on your freckles

The scars on your knee

(that I kissed everyday)


I don’t remember a thing

The heart no more sings your name

You seem so trivial and away

The eyes seek another

And yet, I am writing for you

So, I will let our idiosyncrasies talk

Like they always have.


I am leaving this poem unfinished, like us

I cannot find more to write

You see, I don’t remember a thing

Except that, I remember it all.

I am a poet in love and you are immortal.

I savour how you smile at death,

And slip out of my coffin to please another in the darkness,

Like a child running from his mother’s lies.



I have imagined you next to me every night

That it does feel real.

You come as insomnia

As an old idiosyncrasy

As a drug

As the fire-maker;

Smouldering me till the moon feels weary;

Only to return on another night

To never kiss my scars

But to stone fresh blood spores in them,

To let the pain breathe inside.



You stand at the edge of my bed each night

To run your fingers on my body like a needle,

To ****** me with your carnality,

To drench your teeth in my blood like a digger in sand.



So, each night between the poles of nothing and everything

I unmake my bed

Stained with unfinished songs and pillows burnt

To let you in my heart shaped coffin

Because you are the fuel to this stick that runs between my fingers and writes for you.



So, come again tonight,

I’ll whisper you a death song.

You can laugh at death one more time,

And resurrect me with your rejection.

It's our first walk home tonight.
Our feet in rhythm as we move,
Kissed by the waves at the shore.
Our arms swing,
My fingers flutter as they silently brush past yours,
Impregnating me with butterflies and colours.


It's our first walk home, love.
I'm painted in your hues
While the setting sun silhouettes us and the sea in shades of love and fire.
Our feet are still in rhythm,
Lips are shining with subtle smiles,
Trying to hide the blushes.
Our fingers entangle with each other
To fit your hands in mine.

It's our first walk home tonight.
Would you like some tea while I whisper sweet nothings to you?
Will you sing Coldplay to me
While we bask in the moonlight and  winter dew?
Will you snuggle with me and have 4 AM conversations over rounds of coffee and tea,
While I slip into your cherished blue shirt and walk around the house with bare legs and feet?
Will you wake me up as I want to be;
With your kisses tattooed on my neck
And fingers imprinted on my lips and knee?

Will you refill me with innocent tales from your school and city?
Like several tea mugs from the previous night of stars and ecstasy.

Will you paint me again in your rainbow?
Will your hurt my cheeks from blushing again?
Will you dance with me in high and low?
Will you walk with me second time home?

So here’s another story of he and she.

Half world was imaginary.

She lived in stories and tales,

Sung with characters, held their hands and laughed with them.
She’d sit in the garden uphill and read and smile and cry.

Until one day he passed by and their eyes smiled.
The stupid Cupid moved his wand, shot the arrow and went away looking for his next prey.

Now they would read together under the tree in the same garden.
He was a mystery who never spoke his mind
But fell in love with her little chaos inside.
“Let’s be fictional,” she said.
His eyes said yes.
Eyes could talk, who knew until now?


On page ten, they fell in love, irrevocably this time.
Page forty-one, they kissed.
Page eighty-seven, they danced in rain.
Page one-hundred and fifty, they shared the warmth on a winter night.
Page two-hundred and twelve, it became madness.

Who wanted this book to end?
But all books do end.
Every book has a last page, last sentence, last word, last letter.

And so came page three-hundred and fifteen

He had to go now.
Where?
We don’t know.
Why?
Nobody would ask.
For how long?
Forever, perhaps.

It was madness again.
A sickening melancholy madness.
She’d still sit there under the tree uphill,
Knowing he’d never come but still waiting for him to pass by.

She’d pick up her pen and write everyday; scribble anything.
The blue ink and the white sheets heard it all and she’d tell them everyday,
“It takes madness to fall in love and it takes madness to fall out of it.”

I write about you in my head,

Without even knowing when and how.

I do not love you like the bee loves flowers,

I do not blush for you like a brook in the sunlight.

I love you like a nocturnal psychedelia.

I love you like darkness,

Consuming and hauntingly beautiful.


I know how I want you,

Meet me on a December night.

Undress me,

Shut my eyes,

Drink me raw,

Smell my hair,

Colour me in your murky lust.

Smoke me like a cigarette,

Burn my ***** with your smouldering lips.

Annihilate me,

Fail me,

Love me and then, leave me.


Sing Sinatra to me,

Ruin a song,

A song that I cannot listen to, again.

I want to wake up next to you,

Looking at your face, knowing you can’t be mine.

I’ll bring you coffee in bed,

Be gone before I come,

Escape from the back door.

Be the infidel Zeus,

Leave me naked in your linen, whiffing.

Annihilate me,

Fail me,

Love me and then, leave me.



**** me in the wintry mist,

I’ll scream in the starry night.

Leave me shivering with a gushing sadness

Curled up on the cold floor, naked

Forget me, disengage,

Love me and then, leave me, would you?

I tie threads to my eyelids
Pushing them down,
Shutting them for the day,
Putting myself to sleep.

One eye bats, then the other; perhaps together,
But they never fully close.
The sclera shines and lines like the sea waves’ froth.
I rest my head, curled-up in bed
While the words begin to follow
And I ask myself
“Should I get up and write or just let it go?”

The right eye whispers,
“Sleep, poor *****, let’s write when the sun shines tomorrow,”
But the impatient left, stares hard and says,
“What if you forget it all with the morning sorrow?”

So I gather the thoughts on my pillow,
Grab a paper and a pen; they say “hello!”
I write my own lullaby,
Scribble and sigh,
Oh, it’s just another sleepless night,
But I feel alive
Because I write, I write,
Oh I write.

This is a farewell song,

The last words that I’ll ever exchange with you.

It’s a goodbye.

The end of everything.


Treat me as a stranger now and I’ll return the favour.

If some day, you run into me,

Do not take pains to smile or say hello, because I won’t return it.

Because a part of me won’t let me smile even if I want to.

Because my veins will tie my hands and stop me to reach for you,

to wave at you,  to embrace you, like I once did.

Because this is the end

It’s a goodbye.


You murdered my existence

There’s a part of me that’s always going to hate you,

A part of me that’s always going to remember you,

And remind me why storms are named after people.

I want to paint your every detail with my words

But I fear this maddening obsession will put you off.

I want to write about your freckles and wrinkles,

About the colour of your lips

But I am afraid this creep in my head will drive you away.



I want you to read what I write about you,

But never saying it’s you;

To leave you with wet clouds but never rain.


I want to write about how you light a cigarette and caress my face with smoke

About how you revel in this beloved poison on your thick lips.

About how you let your hair rest on your forehead

Making love to your eyes.

About how you are wondering right now if it’s all for you.



I want to write about everything you were, as you were

About how you are, as you are

About how you will be, dark and free

With or without me.