Do you ever re –read your chats with someone just to try and re - live the joy that person brought to you ?


That feeling,
The wide smiles, the flow of waves from your spine to your belly, those  butterflies,
You bite your lips giggling
The blushes in between
Those sweet tear drops, the emotions flaring
How your heart races when you get to a particular word
Then you start stitching those words into thoughts and dwelling in
The sudden wish to be with him
The way he looks at you
The thought of his lips touching yours
How happy it made you feel
You shut your eyes engrossed in passion
There, Then, you realize
You feel it in your heart
He is the One….
You snap out, memories come flooding in
Flashes of moments spent together,
The good, the bad, the not so pleasant.
Your mind gets thrown into a disarray
Could this be mixed feelings or a mind trick,
probably silly battles between thoughts and emotions,
Or a quest to find your truth
You close out every other thing
You beam your focus on that lingering thought
He is the one, He is the one,
The one

the stories of women you write sonnets upon , or the ones on caricatures
i consume.
they're all fiction to me.

for the women i know are all looking out the window, wandering into endless abyss.
or waiting on tiptoes - to be tied down
in the bonds of 'holy' matrimony.
when they were young,
living on dictums of
father and brothers was an
unspoken, but frequently
enforced trend.
now no longer lean saplings, (who could be stomped upon with ease)
but sprawling, majestic trees
with branches chartering territories
that remain  forbidden  for the tree.
their offshoots
are sheared (for they can't be crushed with ease)
in the name of honour.
to ebb out all the figments of
rebellion, the tree
might hold in it's gamut.
still tamed in the garden,
a new gardener comes in place.
a slightly younger one, who
comes with his own tenets.
restraining her with a
strap, in the name of modesty.
he satiates himself by strangling
last shreds of revolt
her father couldn't slay.
the woman is caged in bars of shame,
all in the name of  honour.
yet again.
why is it that the women i know only lessen with age?
but the men smirk upon,only inflating their slyness. as the years grow on them.