Tale.

Cozy morning light
Funneling its way through dreams
Closing in on us

Feeling warmth of days
Stemming out of unmade beds
We lie now as one

You- falling apart
And me in the worst time frame
Frozen still in sheets

Unrestricted white
Falling into hues of peach
You and I lay bare

Concluding fallout
I walk away from you, naked
The end of our myth

"Typewriters are like philosophies"

typewriters are personifications of anger
she can never silently flutter over the letters
typewriters are reminders of my family
each syllable punched in with frustration

typewriters are memoirs of a time lost
you can't space back in distance nor time
typewriters are articulations of slips
we type what the unconscious wants us to
typewriters are errors of humans
most of who we know we are
typewriters are stories we tell ourselves
one to my sister and another to a boyfriend
typewriters are like you and i
stubborn, tough to handle, old and lost
typewriters, she said, are like philosophies
they fuck your head up. you don't understand.

She is a poem.

Moon lined dreams merge in sad innocence,

For all she knew was poetry in its entirety.

"Fragments", Freud suggests. But poetry

Doesn't work that way. Skip a line,

Skip the flow. Skip a word, skip the poem.

Explaining to a band of hot-headed barbarians,

What poetry means and how an empty set

Signifies void and incompleteness, isn't

Easy. Given that these idiots weren't 

Accepting, whatsoever. Our apple-pathways

Collided at the right time, together we 

Transformed whatever the moon lit dreams

Spoke of, in colours unimaginably bright.

She was poetry: played a tune with her fingers-

The rhythm was imagination, the style was 

As free as spirits be. She was poetry: beautiful,

Hardly understood, structured, whole. She

Was the verse that flowed into another like

The river meandering and finding its way

Through the crevices on permanent rocks.

She inspired poetry alongside being one

Herself. Love, giggles, home-all the same.

She taught and learnt like a poem handed

Down the years, forever-changing in its

Meaning but intact in its words. And I

Look at her like a poem I can never create

But yet love dearly and wholesomely

Because poetry lives in entirety,

Much like friendship.

Strange. Dark. Quaint.

Strange enough that when our sun-drowned paths met,
I was too in love with the extraordinary.
You defined all that I couldn't be,
The 'other' I strongly recommended
Over pizza conversations.
So much that my 'self' could
Never separate itself,
From the boldest hue of
An idea that was you.
You lived in an age older than ours,
You belong there, I promise.
And when we lay in the green lush,
Too dark now because the night was setting in,
You held your guitar in your hand,
Strumming The Beatles, how cliche!
How two souls found solace,
In burnt memories and rusting pasts..
You are quaint, my subject.
You are definitive of one-of-a-kinds.
I guess I was falling in love
With the antagonist.
You can't blame me,
I always have.
The villains are always better.
The darker, the cozier.
The darker, the realer.
The darker, the quainter.
Strange that you were extraordinary,
Strange how I never completed my research.
Strange how you and I are similar, yet different.
Strange that quaintness echoed a tune too familiar.

Scarred Feet

I have a story. Come
Close, I shall let you hear.
They're inscribed on my feet
History and past.

Count the number of scars,
Each one has a tale
And under the streetlight
Let us sit to hear them
Straight away. Like you
Were the creator unknown
To your sin. You were
The silence we left at the brim.

Come try to comfort them-
Scars of an age, that
You know not of like I do.
Come weep tears of sympathy
Now, because tomorrow they'll
Tell a different tale.

Treasure this sight under
The streetlight bright, and
Tell me how justice for
Love is served. Tell me
That you will unravel
The secrets, even those I
Know not myself.

Whisper words of wisdom
Speak of how a time will come;
When the scars disappear but
The feet remain-unmarked in
Deep histories. Come close,
I shall let you hear
The darkest times tell a tale-
Of surprise and distress
All the same. Come close,
O stranger, let you hear
My scarred feet tell a tale.

Come close, O loved one,
Hear me out. My scarred feet
Aren't still out of tales.

Falling right back..

As life runs in circles of aspirations and disappointments, I stand still comprehending the chaos. Not all new places seem welcoming now, and I breathe in all the familiarity I find around me so that I don't forget how you feel like. I look silently across the buzzing room to see people hug and find solace and I stand there knotted emotionally. I haven't looked more messed up, more lost. I thought we were over, done, gone. I thought I left you behind like I left home behind. I thought you came with home. I thought you and I were a fleeting emotion and yet you suffocate me through distance and nothing in the world can make me feel okay right now. I want to hold you and bury myself in your chest and cry. Weep so much that I run out of tears for the rest of my existence. I want to tell you that I hate you for never being there, for feeling for another girl, for giving me thoughts of her with you having all that I have. I want to hate you. Hate you. But yet, I fall right back to you.