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i want to be the newspaper each morning
that you would read and despair of the state of the world.
i want to be the glass of scotch for your lonely evenings
drunk and forgotten the next day;
i would like to be the watch you wear on your hand
reminding you of being in the wrong place at the right time;
i want to be that song that you love
that always plays at the back of your mind;
the key that opens your doors
and allows you back in to the real world.
i want to be that one unfinished book
sitting patiently on your shelf;
i want to be your favourite movie, your everyday bag,
your gold-rimmed glasses that bring the words closer;
i want to be the pen, immensely treasured
yet lost somewhere in a moment of haste;
i want to be the idea that strikes you in the middle of a dream,
that no amount of cajoling will bring back;
i want to be the tears you spill at the death of a loved one,
precious, yet useless.
i want to be that joke you tell everyone;
that forgotten t-shirt at the back of your closet,
the familiar parking space, the habitual end-of-the-day cigarette;
i want to be the stamp that you lick,
before sending me off somewhere.

eastern lights

he is fragile.

easily scared, difficult to convince.

he takes a leap of faith every day;

he wakes up, ready for battle, 

ready for Valhalla to witness his soul.

but he scares easy.

he smiles, but doesn't let that bother his darkness.

sometimes,

he lets go. 

he closes his eyes, and believes in the blue of the sky;

he blinds his worries for a few moments,

for it only takes a few minutes for roaming hands to find their treasures.

he puts his world aside, and steps, ever so slightly, into mine.

he tests the waters; 

it's not the cold that bothers him, it's the ripples. 

he wants to be invisible.

i would trade in my wings for it, he says.

sometimes, he forgets

where he is, what he does, what he wants, and what he doesn't need.

he forgets to be polite, he forgets to hold back.

he is easily scared, but his laughter escapes him;

only for an instant.

and when he sees the world erupt in a blaze of love in her eyes,

he suddenly remembers to close the curtains of his soul.

as if an intruder had walked through your house,

disturbing nothing, and yet,

the air has been moved, and it's uncomfortable. 

he commands his eyes to look away from her,

he begs his hands to stop, he implores his heart to breathe slowly.

and then he disappears. 

he waits, patiently reminding himself to be wary.

he keeps careful vigil; he watches over her,

even though she has asked him not to. 

she waits, her skin warmed in the sun of his universe,

knowing it will take three days 

for him to resurrect. 

difficult

That's it
Right there baby
Go ahead
Don't be shy
A little more
Harder
Oh no
Yes
Slowly, take your time
That's beautiful
Oh darling
I can't take this anymore

We made love,
Even when we were fighting.

It is true

my eyes hurt, exhausted by your caresses
my shoulders are heavy,
from the weight of your dream.
my fingers are tortured, from the feel of your skin
my hips are in agony, from the thrill of your lips.
my thighs ache from the burden of your look.
my mind cries, from the cut of your smile.
my heart burns,
from the fire of your love.

21.

i'll tell you why poets are always awake at five o'clock.
it is because some words just won't let go.
a thought has seeped in, but it does not complete itself.
and so they travel through the universe,
trying to find the verses and piece them together,
but some words are elusive, and some thoughts are shy.
and so,
the poets stay awake. past midnight, so they may finish and forget.
it could take many moons, and many waves of the ocean
until they find just the right rhymes;
but by then, the thought is all grown up

i'll tell you why poets are awake at five o clock.
it is because they do not find unattractive
the pursuit of words;
even if the thoughts have left them, and the lovers gone.
and the heart has been broken,
again;
or even if the entire universe were to spin upon its head,
for the poet, it shall still be an upside down world,
where spines tingle and the eyes mist when happy
and laughter erupts when you get utterly lonely.

i'll tell you why poets are always awake at five o clock
it is because of love that doesn't let them go.
the love of the words for the poet himself, as they spill out of his pen.
a love that can never be relinquished; a love that is choosy;
some words discarded without hesitation, and some loved for eternity.

i'll tell you why poets are always awake at five o clock
it is punishment.
for the gift of the gab, to be rewarded with everything they could never have had.
it is a necessary evil; a feat they must accomplish, a curse they must bear,
to be the bearer of words.

i'll tell you poets are always awake at five o clock
because they have seen the beauty of the world, when everyone is asleep.
and have known a love so deep; it is because they are hopeful.

i'll tell you why I am always awake at five o clock
it is to energise the flowers, colour up the trees,
shine up the sun and retire the moon.
it is to stir the birds, and command the bees
to gather the honey before mine wakes up.

let me tell you why i am always awake at five o'clock.
it is to awaken the universe to witness
the glory of your smile.

Why

i tried to set you on fire today.
i struck a match to the heap of memories,
forgotten moments from long ago,
mixed with your last kiss, still lingering in my skin,
piled together, awaiting the sacrifice.
i watched how they came alive in an instant,
the flames scorching through my laughter,
the heat tasting all your kisses,
tearing through thoughts of you.
it took a long time, i was exhausted.
smoke rising slowly, sending signals.
i waited until the wind arrived,
claimed its part of the story, and scattered the ashes as a final duty.
i turned around, believing i was free.

i looked up to the sky,
and
the rain lashed down,
as if there were no more mercy left in the world,
i was soaked to the bone, in minutes,
and every minute we've ever spent together,
and apart,
rushed right back through me,
into my blood, into my heart, till the tips of my fingers.

that's where he belongs, said the rain.
and don't try returning it again.

mine

I love you
with an honesty beyond belief.
A faith that not even the trees can break.
Like an old man, born before the present times
climbs to the very top of the auditorium steps
straining his old knees, pleading with his heart,
to return to his assigned seat,
even though all the seats around him are empty.
For him, it may have been
a matter of life and death.
For me,
Only of love.
One that is so complete, it needs no name.
So true, it needs no dreams.
Like a child who knows not yet how to read,
writes poetry in the air.
So beautiful, that it needs only laughter.
So vain that it needs no promises.
A poetry so kind that it needs no moon.
Know this, beloved,
I am not the one you love,
merely the one who loves you.

resignation

yesterday i wrote
the most difficult poem
i ever wrote.
it was about giving you up,
and walking into the unknown
and never coming back.
the blank sheet of paper
transformed
into a last will,
a testament
to the love we've shared
and now lost to us forever.
four lines at the most,
and yet, the paper loomed over me
like a sermon, a verdict
from a jury who we knew
would never forgive.
and when you asked me if i had
any last words,
i rummaged through the drawers
of our love
to find something worthy.
and all i could come up with
was
goodbye.

foretold

it's not the best, but it will do. meanwhile, high up in the snow-capped mountains, there is a burial ground for books. not just any book though, only the best. only the ones worth burying. because we shall return to the earth what we took from it. and yet, you still believe in the fantasy. the crazy miraculous day dream that you survived a plane crash. you were the only one, and you come out with only a broken heart. reality, and i pray it never touches you, is you come out with only parts of yourself. the other halves desecrated into thin air. and you sit down, with difficulty, trying to find the words that may one day, be buried in the mountain. again, another fantasy. the words don't come. how can you write about something you only imagined? the pages remain blank, and the list of things that have to be done become longer. some day. 

suit yourself

"is this how two adults, who care for each other, move on?" 
"as far as i'm concerned, two adults who care for each other, don't move on." 

do you know why the phoenix rises from the ashes? because it is in love with the fire, no matter how it hurts. and you'll see the love in its eyes, shining brighter than the fire when its wings start to burn. and when it is consumed, there comes a moment of complete silence, with even the sun holding its breath. and then the ash starts to twirl, twinkling through the darkness, rising slowly as each feather comes to life in a glorious flame of love. each time the phoenix dies for love, it is born again out of love. you've seen me burn. now, watch me rise. i promise, you won't be able to tear your eyes away. i promise, your won't be able to blink. i promise, you will want to burn in the same fire.

before you go

just tell me
how
to stop
thinking
of you.

i can fight everything else. 

where's the parrot?

here it is.

because the joke's on me.

18

"haath jiya pe mal mal"

imagine me writing this,
lipstick smeared all over my lips,
disheveled hair, teary eyed
mascara wiped aside by your hands,
buttons torn apart, bra down on one side.

Nothing,
not all the distance on the planet,
not the stars spewing venom,
or the sick curses of the universe,

not even all the hate in the world
can keep us apart.

phrase one

do you remember?

when we said hurtful things to each other and vowed never to see each other again? you remember the time you walked out on me? and the time i told you that your poor choices leave me with none but to never talk to you again? to be honest, both of us never really believed those things we said.

we knew we could say them because forgiveness was on the other side.

maybe what we didn't realise, is that vows, no matter how small or life-encompassing, can never be taken back. you vow to love, to protect and care for, in richness and in health, in sadness and anger, you vow never to leave the other behind.

and after all the promises we made and broke, the sad truth is, we were meant to be broken. we were meant to be together. we were meant to be sad together. so here's to all the poems our anger and sadness has ever inspired.

and now that we have nothing left, let us vow to savour the emptiness. 

do you?

" tujh me khoya rahoon mein, 
mujh me khoyi rahe tu.
khud ko dhoond lenge phir kabhi"


this one is for the lovers.
the ones who don't ask for much,
but have entire books of stories to give.
for those who don't need therapists,
but certainly do require therapy.
for those who look at the same photos
over and over again,
but smile with hesitation.
for the lovers who shield themselves from the sun,
and yet, laugh at the rain.
this one is for the lovers who know
that every book has a last page.
for those who believe in the signs
and for those who read horoscopes of another.
for those who pray for someone else,
and wish for a miracle, so that they can pass it on.
for those who thank the stars,
and for those who sleep alone, but with everyone.

your love, like mine,
is true and pure and beautiful,
and invisible.