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