With you my love...

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There are no shadows cast

On the peeling pale yellow walls

In the flickering light from the

Bulb.

 

Up above, the fan continues

to move in  a circular motion;

Slow and  steady. The mirror,

mirrors the  unkempt feeling

in the room.

 

The damp smell mixed

With the smells of love

Heightens the silence.

And the dripping water

From the basin tap sounds

Like an explosion.

 

The pillows of the bed

Lie on the torn carpet below.

The sheets; crumpled

Barely cover our bodies

Spent.

 

Your eyes look at me

Every few seconds.

The contentment on your

Face. Sleep has eluded us for

Long, but slowly the sandman

Creeps in close to you.

 

Outside, the bright sunlit

Corridors are bustling.

But the noise doesn’t reach us.

Its you and me, like always.

Together. Me lying by your side

And the hint of a smile on your

Face.

 

Suddenly, all the trouble,

The long distance travel,

The lies, the stories cooked

Up, are all but just right.

 

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I feel sorry for ‘Sorry’ – such an abused term. When you come to think of it, it is just a word, right? It holds significance in some instance and at times, it is a mere excuse. But we humans absolutely love it as an excuse, don’t we? I use this term a lot; I mean a lot! I think of myself as a kind being, and hence, if I happen to push or ignore (deliberate), I say ‘sorry’. I say sorry for things that may not need a ‘sorry’. I say ‘sorry’ to people I am not really feeling sorry for (don’t read this the wrong way). In short, I say ‘sorry’ a lot like I have already admitted. It is my ticket to moving on, a ticket to redeem myself for mistakes and sometimes, tinged with slight sadness (maybe).


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Deafening Silence

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Fear Silence, for its resilient. It is supple, yet rigid too. It holds deep secrets.   Of things forgotten and things left unsaid. It will crush you, crumble and burn. It will shatter you, stamp and destroy, Silently, leaving no sign behind.

Fear silence, for it, will get you. It’s cold, clammy, hands will bind you. Drown you in the shallow seas of sorrow. When no salt is left in your tears, You will be empty, not light.
Fear silence, for it, will see you for who are, Leaving you no place to hide, Baring your soul to all. 

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Letters to the 'Unbeloved' #1

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Dear ‘never meant to be’,
That day at the station, five years ago, I did see you - your patent plaid shirt that you insisted was ‘checks’ with your bell-bottomed jeans, sipping your ‘nth’ cutting chai. That train ticket you sent me lies nestled in one of the many books in my library as a bookmark – old, earmarked and forgotten-to-be discovered again. I still think fondly of you, and often, I thank my stars that like you, I did not board that train. I thought you loved me enough to know me well. Yes, I did think for a while that we could be together but not only were we poles apart, I’d never travel in a sleeper class.
Hope life has treated you well since.
Yours sincerely,

Way-out-of-your-league ex
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Summer Lust

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I have lusted after her for as long as I can remember. People speak of true love, smitten at first sight but for me, it was every bit lust. My desires, my dreams, my feelings… she drives me wild with frenzy. In fact, as soon as I realize, she is going to arrive, I feel my body stiffening. There are things I feel about her I cannot pen down; no, not because of its ‘adult’ nature but because I don’t know how to describe how I feel about her.
She is like no one else – born perfect as she is. Her curves, the buttery texture of her skin, her complexion! My days and nights are filled with her thoughts. I know if I could have my way with her, I could lose my mind. Whenever she is close or in the same room as I, I feel a strange tingling rush through me. Its like she knows she has that effect on me. Her scent, sweet, subtle and ripe like her. If I could make her mine, I’d run my fingers all over her, memorizing her body – every dip, swell and arch.
I do lust after her, but I feel she has the…
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Colours of December

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“I must have flowers, always, and always.”― Claude Monet
Roses. What about them? I am not a flower person. The husband has instructions to never present me with flowers. They are a complete waste of money and space, especially roses. They wilt, wither and perish. Yes, much like we all do, but they do sooner. Also, I think they look lovelier when not plucked.


I have no fascination for rosebuds or the many different varieties of roses; I couldn’t tell one from the other. I prefer shoe-flowers or hibiscus. I love the yellow buttercups, gerberas, and carnations, vibrant yet delicate. I love Tagore flowers, Jasmine, Mogras for their heady scents, and Periwinkles but most of all I love all kinds of green shrubbery. They make my window come alive with twittering sunbirds and a rare butterfly.


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