I've loved many boys
With different colored eyes
But the way I remember them is
By the shape of their hands

The way their thumbs curved
Or how their palms felt against my own
The weight of them on my thighs
Or how they ran through my hair

The times they zipped up my dress
And settled on my shoulders
The moments when they grazed my own
As they handed me my keys

The motion of them as they spoke
And the motionless of them when they were silent
The smoothness of them in the beginning
And the calluses after time had passed

Sometimes, I forget the faces of these boys
Or the way their voice sounded over the phone
But I'll never forget the way it felt
With their hands intertwined in my own

Caressing my neck
As you indulge on my skin
You know my weakness
Erupting my blood vessels
Marking your territory
On my body
Claiming it as your own

We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.

3rd day in the row,
tik tik,
past midnight,but no sign of sleep,
tik tik,
instead,my brain is drifting into thoughts,
tik tik,
which no man can think in sanity,
tik tik,
sound of clock keeping me calm and awake,
tik tik,
if not for the clock i would have been grotesque by the thoughts,
tik tik,
looking into the abyss through the window near my bed,
tik tik,
thinking about the tree which is right now growing wood for my coffin,
tik tik,
than suddenly,
tik tik,
i saw,
tik tik,
just outside my window,
tik tik,
a face,
tik tik,
i live on 14th floor,
tik tik.

-tik tik by adarsh singh

Citrus trees while they're in bloom,
Then bear sweet petals of white;
It's while they are blossoming,
Noses and eyes do delight.

When winds blow through citrus trees,
Eyes, their petals will astound.
As they freely dance about,    
Waltzing petals there are found.    

Citrus petals at twilight,
With light from each shining star;
Are a sight that's truly grand,
And very spectacular.

They come out of nowhere
And can be as simple as a word
Intrusive, flashing voices
Who refuse not to be heard

These opinions with biased force
Keep ringing in my ears
Burning through my retinas
And searing their mark upon my fears

Like a thousand prickling itches
That cannot be soothed by a scratch
Stifling does not contain them
They constantly find new ways of attack

The mind is a delicate balance
Of inner and outer cues
A slight shift can cause a deafening
Where clear thoughts spiral to confused