Every fruit in the bowl had a bite mark shaped like molars.
A toothless toddler and denture free granny were at the table.

She cast her kite skyward, thread-thin,
rain stitched blessings into her wrists,
until she learned:
even prayers dissolve like dreams.

Wit sharp as a sword,
nerves soft as pudding.
I slice with charm,
but melt at the sound of risk.
Courage is custard
topped with bravado sprinkles
Served boiling hot
I just take a teaspoon
and let it scald.

The omelette winked.
I winked back.
Cheese melted like longing,
yolk glowed like a Paris sunrise.
Steam curled like secret letters,
herbs whispered in thyme’s accent.
I called it sunshine
It called me love.
We kissed on the toast until the butter blushed.
This was our love story
brief and buttery.

Tears of joy and tears of pain
placed on a scale
that never tips
just rusts from waiting.
For the one shed with eyes closed.

Roses rise for the memory
of your hand.
For the warmth you taught
them to feel.
For the sighs you left in the
folds of dusk.
For the dreamy gaze which
softened its thorns.

They bloom wildly to make
our meetings eternal.
To turn each stolen glance
into spring.
To listen to your "yes".
Not once but always.

Vultures clutch cappuccinos and half-baked opinions
perched on cafe chairs like royalty,
sipping judgement with foam art
The beaks rip reputations before the croissants
and in between gluten-free hypocrisy.

Consumption is *******
in this brunch obsessed theater of civility.
The catching up is a hunt
and even vultures are on menu.

The omelette winked.
I winked back.
Cheese melted like longing,
yolk glowed like a Paris sunrise.
Steam curled like secret letters,
herbs whispered in thyme’s accent.
I called it sunshine
It called me love.
We kissed on the toast until the butter blushed.
This our love story
brief and buttery.

She called her dimple, a crater of charm
but the acne beside it was a constellation
She tried so hard to erase.

I saw the moon in her face,
glowing, flawed and
pulling tides in me.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I am imperfect, clueless, weird and spry
I love my flowers on the vine,
Not in bouquets or vases which shine.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I have a fireproof heart and no roving eye.
I am loyal to truth, not to comfort or trend,
And I would rather offend than politely pretend.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
It’s difficult to meet such a guy
Who will quote Rumi mid-flirt, roast your aura,
Then vanish to write about civil euphoria.

You left this world on the day meant for roses
But you enter every poem I write like petals.

I remember your wallet
holding the weight of rice and survival.
Your royal chair ,reserved for those
who wronged you.
Your grayish eyes
like storm clouds that never broke.
Your plastic slippers you wore year round.
Your words and their weight.

Twenty two years, seven months, eleven days
And my eyes still flood like monsoon warnings
My throat still chokes like a pulled violin string .

Your absence is felt like a civic collapse
A callout like sirens in memory’s lapse.

Reminiscing about you is a habit,
And habits die hard.

Some whetstones honed me,
others just scraped.
Some flints pressed on temples,
others just cracked.
Some boulders rolled on my shoulders
others just watched.
Some pebbles rained on me
others just slipped.
Some gravels bled my feet
others just pricked.
Some shards reflected me,
others just shattered.

But one marshmallow
melted in my throat.
The pink promise turned to curse,
sweetness became suffocation.

One-legged vigil,
sky-***** and still
she surveys the river of tears,
watches oblivion.
Peeving the soul mate
who fled for bluer waters
feathered with heron.

Dida packed a brass comb
and the deed of a house
she would visit again and again -
only in her nightmarish dreams.

Platform walls were splattered
with fresh red signatures of delay.
The train was late because the
conductor's throat was slit.

Clock hands were frozen at fifteen past twelve
She stacked herself in a compartment
with three bodies and sacks of rice.

She was busy counting the flies,
one crawled into a boy's eye,
seven clung to the huge belly of a woman.
The limbs of an old man were twitching,
shooing them away.

The iron wheels shrieked one last time
before the land parted ways,
and a girl in ripped banners was shoved in,
her knees black with crusted blood.

Outside, the station dogs howled.
Inside, time had been murdered.

Comb's teeth dug in the palm, mapping.
The rice sacks leaked grain by grain
like a funeral procession.
The DEED was done.