crescendo

gospel

i listen

i listen

to my words

for you

no

do not mistake these 

words

and no

do not dismiss

them as words

of flesh

they aren't

they aren't merely

words 

of the flesh

they are 

words

made by flesh

given body through flesh

and fed on blood

coloured 

in the colours of rainbow

and every imaginable 

unseen hue

my words

knocking on your door

to become your words

and your words becoming

my veins

carrying

life

to my heart

and i listen

i listen

to my smiles for you

my smiles waiting at the turn of the corner

waiting for you to appear

so that they can become

your smiles

and no

do not mistake these

smiles

do not think of them

as a lullaby 

masking something sinister 

something deceitful

decorated with marquee lights

burning bright

and killing moths and butterflies

alike

your smiles

becoming

my arteries

carrying

the meaning of life

from my heart

to the rest of my

body

my limbs

glistening

after listening

to the combined gospels

of your words and smiles

the gospels

according to

St. You

letter in smoke

i write letters
in smoke
standing by my window
against the black parchment 
of the night
i write in white
can you read them
do they reach you

each curve of the letter
an offspring of a fire stoked
coaxed and cajoled
i run my fingers 
through these smokey alphabets
to make sure they are perfect
and are spelled perfectly
the shape of the letters
is the state i am in
is what i wish to convey
these letters are a compilation of
all the things i wish to say
but never could
for since early on
this knowledge i did gather
some letters i will write and
them i will send
some letters i will commit on paper
but never send
some letters 
the ones that will matter
the most
when the day ends
i will never be able to write
or send
but will 
still
be able to recite from memory
this letter that i write
in smoke
standing by my window 
is one such letter
and there is a reason
i write it with smoke
one reason is it flows
with movements so fluid
unrestricted
unbound it soars
is another
taking the shape of the air around it
the shape of air within me
from which i created it
one blow
at a time
much like how you
take the space
instead of the air
that surrounds me
and just like you
take the shape
of my thoughts
starting from the bottom of my belly
to the shape of the tip of my tongue
and a pear shaped teardrop
shapeshifter
you
inside me
rearranging me
inside out
and quite similar to that
is what i try to do
as i stand by my window
and write these letters 
in smoke
and i ask
can you read them
do they reach you
because when they do
i wish you'd inhale them
and through these letters
i'd enter you
and try and see
if i have what it takes
to rearrange a bit of you
just the way
you
so effortlessly manage to do
so i stand
and i write
this letter in smoke
a long five paged letter
of which page one
has all the things i want to say
and the remaining four are mere repetition
but about that i shall not care
not too much
for the night too
is long
and the smokey ink
endless
and so is my need
to stand by my window
and write
against the black parchment
of the night
in white
a thick dense smokey white

predilection

wholesome

wrinkles

wrinkles 

and

stretch marks

and love handles

i handle with love

the handles

and even the remaining two 

above

i see me differently as i

realise

that i am capable of seeing you

differently

that i see these differently

that your imperfections

don't exit

not for me

and just to use that word

is a thought crime

so this i will do

scratch it out

tear it out

burn it out

out of our dictionary
and every other 

because really

moans

and rasps

and licks

and feels

and my hands running 

through the meadows

of your body

your body

in its entireness

can never be that

it is different

i know that you can tell

i know you know how

different

different from how others may see you

or not see you

at all

but

then again

there isn't room enough 

for others

there is just room

for the two of us

on those wrinkles

and stretch marks

and love handles

and those birthmarks

and moles

and cuts and bruises

and scars

which have found a permanent

home

on your skin

i curl around their length

i espouse their breadth 

i move in circles

with a mild sense of ecstasy

building up

rapidly

and a full-blown sense of

a conclusion

foregone

around their circumference

with shaky

want-filled fingers

oozing desire

at the fingertips

i count them

these wrinkles

and stretch marks

and make constellations

joining one mole

to that scar

hoping

at least one 

would spell my name

like a man blinded with love

only that i'm not

i read them in braille

that i see these

i see these differently

clearly

endearingly

with wide open eyes

i search for our stories

and time spent together

which bloomed into

countless memories

and i only ask you to turn around

and lie on your stomach

because i wish to read

i wish to read more of it

all of it

uninterrupted

and i shall make 

ivory boats out of 

your birthmarks

and set us aboard them

and set us to sail

far away

deeper 
into 

us

birthmarks

and love handles

and those stretch marks

and moles

and cuts and bruises

and scars

and wrinkles

wrinkles

bookmarks
of our time together
folded
heedfully
in satin sheets
of our combined flesh
i shall keep

playing chequer with the sky

The clear blue sky lies still, unmoving. In a constant stare down contest, unblinking, it looks down upon us, us below, as we look up to it, with silent prayers, hissed curses, adamant indifference and a fleeting hopefulness.

The sky was still that day, like most days in May; the sky was sullen that day, as it is in most days in January; the sky was unrelenting that day, as it is in most days in September, perhaps marked with a few clouds, but still just as unflinching, taking upon the countenance of an old soul with furry brows, and weak, watery eyes, but still seeing things more clearly than most, still unblinking. That is understandable. Once you have seen most part of life, you are increasingly less likely to come across something that can look back straight into your eyes and force you into submission, force you to look away. That is the nature of the sky, regardless of the colour of the velvety robe it adorns. That is the character of man too, in some way, as we impotently trade a smooth robe for an old, wrinkly one.

The sky was still that day. He felt it deserved a few clouds. He lazily leaned back into his chair, took a deep drag on his cigarette, the cigarette he held in his right hand, like one holds a pen, the left arm behind his head, and his right leg crossed over his left one, which was stretched, like that distant relative every family has, or most, one who is not concerned with the going-ons of the family, but feels the uncontrollable urge to make his or her presence felt every once in a while, mostly in matters of little or no weight.

He exhaled a few heavy, cotton ball like smoke clouds, against the backdrop of the perennial sky. “There you go,  your allowance of clouds for the day.” He said and sniggered, a wheezy snigger.

Just then, he saw two pigeons glide across the sky, in perfect harmony, such synchronized movements, like ice skaters. The grace, the timing, the comfort they shared with each other and the willingness to share the sky. Sublime beauty. And then he saw the sky again. Unblinking, still.

“Does a sight like this not touch you in some way? Does it not make you warm up and turn a loving pink or some such shade?” 

And then the sky spoke. “They glide with such ease that it hardly seems that they are moving. They become a part of me, as still as me. What reason can I possibly think of, to thank them for? If anything, I am stiller than they are.”

Just then, the pair of pigeons flapped their wings together. Movement! The sky finally had some movement. And with that movement, dawned the knowledge that a course was being covered, that a journey was being undertaken, that some distance was being cut. The sky which a few moments ago, seemed gigantic and undefeatable due to its sheer unending stretch, now seemed like any other road, lane, by-lane, which has a point A and a point B. The sky was made small by that dancing pair of pigeons.

“You blinked.” He said and smiled a satisfied smile. “There, now you have your reason to show some gratitude.” He completed his sentence. Closed his eyes, his left leg, still playing the perfect distant relative and the sky, at that moment, was gifted a few more clouds by him. 

scour

imprinting

licks

theflower

have you seen death singin'?

out of a whorl, into a rainbow

a little something inside
starts to whorl 
every time
that little girl 
standing
facing the sea
stops smiling

i stand at a distance
and watch her
it could be me
or the sea
either one
or both
who
shrink a little

and then i look
at the back of her hand
with which she 
wipes the smile off her face
and whisks the tears away 
from her cheeks

and i am filled 
with this inquiry
so magnanimous
magnanimous enough
even for the sea

that tiny little part of her
the back of her hand
holds so much
together
her smile and her tears

and i stand at a distance
and watch her
and this non-believer
of everything divine
or anything great 
and lordly
or heavenly
me
cannot help but feel weak
and i summon my most effective words
and conjure the most 
magnificent images
to the best of my ability
these words and images
my efficacious replacements
for a believer's prayers
i whisper a wish
a wish which i wish
is roaringly loud
and heard
heard by the
Scales
the one true entity
that can claim superiority
the balance of the nature
which pampers
and spiflicates
all things
while still cuddling them
in her lap
and maintains the randomness
of this universe
sometimes a gift
sometimes a curse

this is my wish
and you cannot but manifest it
this little girl
weeping
smiling
standing
facing the sea
do you see her
like i see her
and do you see the 
back of her hand
the domicile 
an uneasy unified and a harmonious one
of her tears and her smile

see it
i demand
with a clear eye
under a clear sky
in witness of the clear waters
make a rainbow for her
make a rainbow for her
every time her smiles and tears
meet
and mate
at the back of her hand
this isn't asking much
she deserves
this much
and this is how rainbows 
usually work
don't they
a single white light
pierces a single drop
like a lover does
meet his lover
and becomes a part of her
and then splits her
into different colourful shades of her
a colourful band
which was hidden 
somewhere deep inside her
you have the light
her smile
you have that drop
her tears
make a rainbow for her
i demand you must

and till this wish is heard
i pledge before myself
and her
in spite of the fact
that invisible is how she sees me
that i shall stand
watch her
never leave 

i shall watch
till the sea shrinks to the size of her tear
and i shrink to
nothing
but i shall not move
before that
and i won't be able to 
move
after i see the rainbow
made for her

till that happens
she is
i am
the sea is
and the back of her hand

resile

bloom

can i bring you to bloom

can i say the things that would make you

can i be your spring

can you be that one singular tree

in the midst of my vast landscape

and still not feel solitary

because you would want me

because you would have me

your spring

waiting to be

engulfing you

every petal 

that is you

your neck

the delicate stem

and fingers

the leaves

would you

play this

me

surrounding you

when the wind blows

with your gentle 

fingers

waving in the wind

play me like your piano

or a flute

play our tune

would you

why 

wouldn't you?

what do i want

do i want 

something 

that is so much

that it cannot 

find a place inside you

somewhere

even if just a little corner

inside you

is fine 

because i intend to

take that small corner

and build a home

and be the spring

surrounding that home

and you'd live inside that home

wouldn't you

it would be like

you living inside me

as i live inside you

and layers of us surrounding us

when the sun rises and when it sets

and when it sets 

the layers

come closer to each other

wrapped warm and tight

and assuringly

looking at us

telling us

it is us

and that they need to

entwine around us

asking us to let them

and i would

would you

why 

wouldn't you?

and a star

a morning star

a beautiful dawn

a divine morning

you are

you already are

but would you let me 

be

something more

something bigger 

than i am

something like

your fragrant spring

you the morning

and me your early spring dew

resting on your petals

and leaves

and stem

and

fill you 

with rapture

why wouldn't you

when you already are

so much

why wouldn't you 

let me

be

even this much

let me 

be

please

do this much

let me be your spring

that makes you bloom

would you

why 

wouldn't you?

neck

Ms. Magnolia

linger

cocoon

sinfonia

figment

the shadow whisperer

i detest the light
and the dark
and their silent
teasing illicit 
offspring
the shadow

which gets so close to you
that it can lay its bare hands on you
choose to show some of you
and hide the rest of you

like a white devil
it stands behind you
looking over your shoulder
looking at me
mocking

i am on her
it says
i do with her
as i please

the inside of her thighs
and the underside of her breasts 
i kiss

she lies in with me
irrespective of which side
her face or hips
turn
i am there

as i please 
i do

look at me
it says
look into my hollow eyes
and tell me you don't
really wish it was
you

i detest 
i detest 
from the bottom of my 
emotion infested gut

turned inside out
upside down
i know i should look away
but look on
jealous
burnt
broken
i must

eden

felicity

frisson

icarian

i want to cut the moon
into fine thin lines
of the winter's first snow
and take a hit

the dark black sky
my blotting paper 
dipped in yellow sunshine
a perfect balance of the 
yin and the yang

i need to keep it 
on the tip of my tongue 
and roll my tongue
into my mouth
like how the wave 
rolls up 
and vanishes
into the sea

one rush
after the other

summon the blue devils
and the wonder star
the white dove
sailing across
the sky
look how she flies

i want to dance with the devil
dance till the blue is black
and the white is red
and eat the star
and pet the dove
as she sits on my arm

crush the star
grind it fine
and cover myself in your angel dust
leaving a trail of smoke
emitting from 
flesh made divine

and all that

i need to do 

all that

just so that it resembles 
the hot shiver 
that runs down my spine 
as my mouth and lips and tongue 
meet my beloved's

balm

why does stepping out 

on a sunny day

feel like walking under drops of plastic rain 

and the air like sheets of glass

and water running through me

like with its jagged shards

why do i think of you

why do i think

that coming to you

would take that all away

make it all okay

why does

your blanket

feel like home

and the one on my bed

in my room

holds no warmth

why does the soft dim yellow light

in which your room basks

make the light that i hear

as i sit in what was my corner

seem like a thousand

angry agitated

madmen

shouting at me

why do i think of you

when they do

that

why do i think

that if you'd put your arm

around my chest

or let me put mine

around your waist

just by doing that

you could make this cacophony

petter down

silhouette of a moment

lull

while

a shirt
a dark white shirt
with a breast pocket
and a pen

not just any pen
a fountain pen
given as a gift
on my 1st death anniversary

it was black
shiny like ceramic

and the tip
the tip was silver
the tip of the cap
and the tip
at the bottom

it caught light beautifully
and threw out words

its fuel
was ink
regardless of the colour

on ink it fed
and satisfied my hunger
by the words it threw out

my breast pocket
and the pen
its best friend
always together
did fantasy trips together
chased dreams
lost causes
sulked and moaned
and roared
together

one day
one dull
bright 
saturday afternoon

both of them
high on life
decided to give it up
decided to give it all up

are you done
the pocket
asked the pen
i think so
replied the pen

you
asked the pen
me too
said the pocket

but can we please
do it together
hand in hand

wouldn't imagine
it any other way
one of them asked
both replied

so then
the pen
nestled in the pocket
and bled
silently bled dry

the pocket
which was the colour
of a dark white
was the colour 
of the pen's insides

absorbing all the pen 
had to give
giving itself up
as it did

and then it was all quiet
still
serene

and i saw them
from a distance
on a bright dull
saturday afternoon

a sad smile
the within me

and me
without

played out 
by a pen and a pocket

when would it be my turn
i thought

within replied
with a hand on my heart
in a while
my friend
in a short while