Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****,
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.

The children grew heavy on our backs
The desert sun was baking our skin
But we could still see sand, endless at the horizon
We knew our last days were near.

Glistening in the sun,
Sand can be so much fun.

A towel on the ground,
My worries are now unwound.

Children always laughing,
All the while they are splashing.

Little Birds dart back and forth,
Eating mollusks they work to unearth.

Crisp, clear, blue water,
Always to be seen in this saltwater.

Shells upon shells.
From conch to cockleshells.

Hot sun always lead to ice cream,
To help let off some steam.

So many reasons different for each,
On why the beach is so fun to reach.

The sands were still—home silent trees
The day was calm—our lives at ease
We rattled no more than passing breeze
As we sang the ocean's frequencies

Time had passed and we rode the waves
Ventured far out—lost track of days
We swam through nights and their gentle haze
And we came to rest at each other's gaze

walking around the *****
walking around stones
walking around the *****
odyssey was today or now

walking around the *****
and in the bushes and cacti and words
walking around the *****
as if in stone sands

odyssey poured like tap water
odyssey raced like rain in april
walking around ***** yes
walking around a stroller with stones

21.12.18

It is your childhood bestie on Facebook,
Miles away,
Yet just a tap away.
It's the sun shining from behind the clouds
On December mornings
While you work your *** off on your laptop
In bed in your 4-BHK apartment.
It is the soap bubble that bursts
Just with your one glance
Because memories are fragile.
They aren't made of hearts of stone
And kinetic sand.
They're made of soft toys
And fur animals.
Nostalgia is the balloon-seller you whizz by
At the traffic signal
Every morning.
It is the sweetness of strawberries
That falls drop by drop,
on your tongue,
That has forgotten to taste.
It is a subtle symphony that coffee plays
That only you can smell
Every evening.
It is the obedient smile that dances on your lips for a while
But fades away
As the smoke of dead habits take over.
It the closed window behind the curtains,
The forgotten post-its on the fridge,
The giggles trapped shut in between the pages of ******,
It is the withered rose on the tombstone
And the eulogy never spoken.
It is a teary-eyed laughter
In vacuum.
It is happy faces
In a photo frame.
It is the dictionary in a sentence,
Not something that can fit into a stance.