Caffeinated & How

tone of the crackling biscuit breaking into my
realm rightly ruled by murk and melancholy
before another graceful dip in my glorified
yet sentimental cup of dark coffee

whilst spilling the thoughtful ink on canvas
painting him the blues of an articulated sonnet
that has silhouette for simile and an honest
attempt to understand ivory for irony

after one too many homemade cookies and
a sip after sip with the toffee smothered on lip
my mind traversed to picturesque places
of scenic colours and other planting a kiss
on the rose tattooed neck of my lover

savouring the last of sugar by raising a toast
to what remains as his last voicemail memory
and my lips knew again the taste of his voice
like it was the freshest wisp of reverie

Opposite Of Kiss

‘twas fall of ‘96 and perishing away with the leaves were my guards that i had let down only for another to let into my scripture

coining every phrase and word with intricacy, he had quite vividly taken me by surprise by imprisoning my mind like it was something he learned in his sacred art culture

luring into a place so privy with only a gleam of little or no space, he nevertheless budged an inch closer only to hear my notes speak

there were loud screaming words and an even high pitched fictional tales between the silent spaces of all that squeak

my pages were now seemingly emptier and they longed for him to spill the ink with his poetic pauses charming enough by its look

and gently resurrect my dead brown papers into a fresh fragrance of a newly bought book

the lasting sniff of his signature cologne lingers on my pages as if imprints of an unwritten law of forbidden love, my heart would unknowingly take a leap to its very bottom

an eventful dusk wherein two souls had learned their way to kiss through the cosmic dust in the little space, felt more of a season than the autumn

Tinted Cigarettes

it was with every wisp of smoke and the withering hope that i kept turning my aspiration to ashes

the sort of wreckage, i could put a stop on but would not

my lipstick tainted cigarette was now turning plural each day and more so

eloquently narrated stories in a language i would not speak

the apparent verbosity had now started to lack empathy

as i flickered the optimism like dust in the thin air

it daydreamed me into going back to an era and pave way for a havoc

that hadn’t finished business, said it was the right cynic thing to do

or was it really just a sweet formal invitation

to the shattering reality to visit and grant me a beautiful death yet again?

who is to say though, whether i was embracing or gambling the end of me

wasn’t it just a metaphor after all?


कुछ साँसें आज भी सम्भाल रखी हैं
जो तुम्हारे क़रीब आते ही
यूँ तेज़ी से खर्च होने लगती थी

कुछ धड़कनों को आज भी समझा रखा है
जो तुम्हारी तस्वीर को निहारे ही
यूँ बेवजह शोर करने लगती थी

मगर इस दिल की हिफ़ाज़त कोई कैसे करे
जहाँ तुम्हारे नाम का एक आशियाना बस्ता था
झरोके के बाहर एक नन्हा सा पौधा खिलता था
और कुछ ही दूर नदी का झरना आहिस्ते बहता था

इस बार जब लौट आओ
तो सिर्फ़ लौट जाने के लिए आओ
आशियाने की नींव कमज़ोर हो रही है
पौधे आख़री साँस ले रहे है
और झरना तेज़ी से सूख रहा है

लेकिन इस बार जब लौट आओ
तो सिर्फ़ लौट जाने के लिए आओ
इस दिल को बे-सबब सहारा देके
ऐसे भी तो मत लुत्फ़ उठाओ

featured image by divaniindia

A Piece For Peace

To the man playing flute at every sunset hour,

you stay around, in my own vicinity
far from my knowledge of your name & face
but probably in the closest proximity

for i often am bewitched by your
flute playing shenanigans at every day break
and long for the meditative sounds while the
cooing of cuckoo is a tad too much to take

it’s the saddest symphony that you play
either graving the gray old grief only so
you can put it to rest again, or you too are
a person easily enticed by the sad stairway

a head full of curly hair i hope and the
indistinct facial features says my imagination
working a full time job with the cheapest band
of flock of birds with their stupid citation

regardless of when the mystical tunes
hit my eardrums making peace with its tricks
gingerly caressing all my sorrows and heart
like nothing was ever broken to begin to fix

and for that instance, that very instance
i know no pain in the world
i know no wars dismantling the system
i know no materialism bringing down the poor
i know no hatred between the men of colour

but i know of love,
love that rises above all and heals like no other


जिस रोज़ से तुम्हें इन निगाहों ने देखा है
किताब के पन्नो में तबसे समेटा है

कश्मकश में रहती है फिर भी सियाही
जो उनको क़ैद करने से है थोड़ी हिचकिचाती

एक दिल ही में उनकी जगह है महफ़ूज़
जहाँ दिन रात है आज़ादी की महक आती

featured image by divaniindia //

Unamused: A Muse

aimlessly blinking at the sight of my ceiling and a steadily squeaking fan with its last couple breaths to fall into a perpetual slumber

has this gloom room always been so pink i think to myself or has my nonchalance overpowered my ability to feel the melancholic shades of umber?

often conflicting my way to the prismatic times that have long withered away but were once an everlasting trace of mirth and merriment

has this supposedly accustomed trudge to people from past and compassion from crypt been put to sleep or has my unfinished ode no longer the heart to vent?

strolling to a delightful feel-good and cinematic piece of art only to at least reverberate the dead muse in me alive

has this intermittent indulgence in the drama and thriller of frames probably overdone to almost done or has the monochrome greyed out my fantasising ability to the archive?

eventually turning to my old fella often called by the name of music for my selfish solacement and to inspire introspection

has this song struck a chord within me for far too long to remember the feeling of it anymore or has my nerve forgotten to dance to the tunes of subdued retrospection?

Far-Fetched Forever

brushing the crimson off my long face and
letting my bedridden heart breathe for once,
what possibly could’ve been
a nightmare of forever
had instead been the throes
of passionate love dance,
a forlorn attempt over and again
for an ethereality
but a freckle between us
incessantly being a bitch in trance,
gathering the ruins & rubble
of this lifeless show we put
if i were to audition again
for the game of hearts
i would say no fucking chance!

Love Letters

a postcard was dropped by today
and with that the trail of
my beloved’s sweet-scented aches.
the mailman has me recognised by now
for a woman who writes to his darling
and longs for his return every hour of the day.
the constant yearning for three years
has made me ancient for my heart
can only hold so much torment.
but with gushing emotions nevertheless
i ran up the spiralled staircase and
silently sat next to my candle-lit desk.
this mellowed evening had suddenly
withered all birds into their homes,
lanes growing less chaotic and
the sky above watching in wonder.
he writes to me —
“a beautiful man in my neighbourhood
plays the classical melodies on flute,
specially the yaad piya ki aaye thumri
every evening lullabying the sunset to sleep,
the birds to dream and me to fall in the abyss
of reminiscing your sweet voice.
to hear the waves crashing by the shore
and watch the sun slyly go,
i might have turned grey aching for
the sound of your anklets and
a glimpse of my darling as she’d move to & fro.
we’ve been in a debatable conversation,
the night sky and i.
for what could be more enchanting or
unfathomably darker than your eyes?
wouldn’t you want to come here, my love
and settle the bet like there’s no lies?
but when i rest into the seemingly long night,
my head floats around the memories
of watching you watch me through the mirror
with coy smiles and suggestive gestures,
eventually longing for every inch of you
turning my nights into longest restless hours
my dear, the ever changing weather here
takes me on a nostalgic ride every now & then
for when it pours, my heart cries a song of its own
and when it’s fall, wearing my heart on sleeve i shed a few walls”
— the candle light started to wither after all
and the cuckoo came out of her home
as what it seemed like was the time of dawn
here i was, six years later too
re-reading your letters anew.

The Learning

To my dearest sailor man who has my heart in absolute longing for evermore,

it wasn’t until I saw his face again, had I known what love looked like

and I’ve been since learning the colour his mysteriously light eyes look like.

love had a voice too, almost like a music and his was the only one I wanted to listen

he perhaps had the most beautiful mind, and I was in the awe of the way it worked.

we held hands, love & I and it felt nothing short of a magic at first,

i’ve since been learning the way his fingers would make circles in my palm.

love is now aware of the times i’d need a shoulder to rest my head on,

and I’ve been learning the way he would casually lean a perfect angle to make it a home for my head.

a spark that pulls us closer everyday, like a magnet we craved each other

and I’ve been learning how his arms would wrap around me, and hand so gentle would move against my arm.

remembrance of the time his lips touched the back of my hand and made my world come to a standstill is still my most favourite feelings to learn of love.

love is no good at goodbyes, none of us are and I hope we never learn that.

I hope we instead hug each other awkwardly, be sad and sulk about the fact that we’re gonna miss each other like shit and long for the loving everyday because we damn right will. Screw this poetry I fucking miss you.