I follow my instincts,
and wait for the clock to tick.
the courage to engulf,
a letter should say it.
twirling around in sheets,
you drop me a text to meet instantly.
It’s four in the morning
you had to accept it exists,
in the spontaneity.
Another tick on the list,
as it pours and lights go out,
we kiss like it’s the last time.
Unable to claim our love,
or part our ways,
making it a must.
I fail to take another picture of us,
though you stand beside,
at the brink of words.
Though we do not need a reason to kiss but it’s fun when you ask me to see, if not brushing your teeth will affect our kiss. I told you, you smell a little too weird after I kissed. We laughed and you said let’s brush our teeth. It’s the most tiring thing for me, plus you’d make me brush my teeth for twenty minutes because you believe in oral hygiene.
The rains this season are a bit too sweet,
sinking in it made me live another day
the leaves are fresh, it’s hard to know
that the sun sets, and the clouds go red
this season the rains are colder than before,
another day went in with the wind blowing,
the flowers are a sight, to be worn and gazed,
grown next to bed, waking up to its scent.
Now that monsoon has left the town,
a dullness has overpowered,
abruptly as it may sound.
Mankind has only done worse for each other, limiting oneself along with another. Being the critics of others is what a human takes to challenge oneself to everything that it is not. The perfection that we crave between dialogue, makes us find it in ourselves. In the aftermath of this quest for perfection lies the thought about being different than the rest of us.
It is your imperfection that drives you closer to the thought of being different. Not better, or worse. And when you find the beauty in the layer of your skin which will always be damaged from the hundred metre skid. The scratch of the pimple you unconsciously picked, the missing nail from staircase on which you tripped. If only you fell in love with your glitch.
stand up once,
sing and dance twice
in the mulberry garden, thrice
swing and swing,
take the rainbow wings
fly away from the crowd,
buzz, the sound of bees
hush says maa,
sleep
like the babies of dreams,
shake off the mud
you wrapped yourself into,
turn around,
do a booty swing
go for the highest leaf,
jump and jump
also, fall and hurt your knees
there is cotton in the drawer
white flowers have,
water droplets on them
look baby look,
let settlements
resemble the beauty
on leaves
The woman in the green stole,
took a piece from my heart,
in the middle of a deceit
she fell for,
she would let the play carry on
and from dusk to dawn,
to come to the rescue
was a song,
she would sing to herselfm
as the cold breeze
turned to the tempest
of the hour.
maybe i am too much in the construct of things;
we are two free souls.
we found each other at their shores,
walking out of the sea,
drenched in the other person’s clothes.
to keep close to the smell,
find us a third way, away from the extremes,
where we could explore oneself,
in sync with the universe.
But I guess there is no way away from extremes.
When you’re confined within a space you tend to long for places you have never been to. Then there are places and memories you have lived. One such place is college canteen. It need not be yours. But it needs to be, for us it was boys canteen. With pure greenery, where trees are aligned. There was freedom to be, not limited to time. There could be a breakfast after the long night, because sunlight was too harsh for our skin and eyes. There was sleep awaiting, a reservation pending. Those last unbearable days we were wishing they would never end. I didn’t want to have a last day. Our holiday was overdue. Paratha with chaas was good enough to end the night.
We loved a little more today,
expressed the fear
of loosing the stares
don’t just go away
this way.
tell me a little more about yourself,
share an insight of the depth unread,
I want to look for a little more while,
love you with each passing day.
Yes,
it will be difficult as the days went,
from ninety nine to null,
the time to bid farewell,
but still can we love
each other a little more tomorrow.
Be in our arms, closing in,
destroying our sorrows.
Ruin,
pacing round the clock
for just a little more tomorrow.
Crowns prepared, birthdays are planned,
in exchange of cards,
sharing our love, through handmade craft.
Papers, Letters, hugs, laughs,
From seven years apart through art
remained in the corner of the hearts.
gossip and chats started at last bench,
scolded but crafted the punishment
with giggles loud enough to dislocate a class.
Once we the queens of wasting hours
for phone calls long enough to wind up
the distance not felt at this moment at par.
we may not be each others maid of honour
but a paper with a photograph will still
be there in each other’s hand.
a promise to one another,
we’d still be the same with innocence of the days we are here, today.
17:53
14.05.2018
Old tattered notes 