I wanted to cry
As I saw my mom’s mug—
Broken.

She was so sad,
So she fixed it.
It was a mug from Italy,
I brought it to her
as a souvenir once.  

She was so sad,
As if she brought it
herself,
She lingered.

I wanted to cry
As  I realised—
She got to see
Some places
Only through my eyes.

I wished,
I hoped,
Someday I can
Carry her with me
To every place she ever dreams.

We could never be.

You had a malice in you,
I couldn’t recognise in me.

We could never be.

The roots of your envy,
Started to grow stagnant,
In the depths of my being.

We could never be.

I had to understand.
I couldn’t change such fate.
I had to let go of my faith.

We could never be.

The endearing love,
The Christmas parties,
The summers to come.

Heart is no closet
They say—
But in mine
Each compartment,
is perfectly organised.
I neatly fold
Your sighs—
Some still
tangled in my hair.
Your fervid stares,
Vacuum-sealed
In a box on the left shelf,
Next to the neck kisses,
faded birthday wishes,
and hangers —full of
teenage lust—
pressed, rarely worn.

To be just a face in somebody’s yearbook,
tenderly remembered by some eyes,
or maybe.. softly forgotten.

To be a passing stranger in the street,
Filling the background as if following
The imaginary script of someone else’s life.

—Coexisting in pages, or between the lines,
of multiple, existing storylines—

Playing the loyal friend sometimes;
The bubbly crush or the terrible villain
once or twice.

Whatever the role..
..we end up just lingering.

..craving.. desiring.. that funny, ephemeral feeling.

We end up just
    lingering,
          Yearning,
             Daydreaming,

to be part of
A day, a page.
A chapter, a year.

If my body were strings—
Dancing to pure vibration
Granting the possibility
of lively, touchable matter,
Matter itself would hinge
on the sweet tremor of your name.

It sure felt the rip—
Heart out my ribs—
when your voice went silent.

Still,
in love-frequencies,
such filaments rejoice:
knotting and tangling
replaying us through
Several hidden dimensions—

Or whatever modern physics
keeps hinting at it.

I lost my focus—dreaming a quantum leap—

Believe me:
Such threads tense at every thought
of their plausible alignments:
A bunch of them making
Your ancestors’ atoms colliding!
Just so one day
— for my own personal desire—
one random entanglement
could finally produce—
the loveliest colour
your eyes would have.

Sundays are made for God and for poetry.
For they both can see us fully through.

Hoovering gatherings,
mind miles away,
I have the longing,
weakening curse.  

It’s in my veins, makes my blood flow.

Pleasantries, nods,
Laughter becomes background noise.
Such a waste of present.
And still I can’t stop:

What if it was better before?

Self sabotaging makes a home
in my bones

Why I keep ruining it all?

Why am I trapped in this loop?

What is the lesson I need and refuse to be taught?

It’s a Sunday Morning where I am,
Lying warmly in bed.
It’s time to get my coffee
and catch a brief glimpse—
Through my small virtual window

I get to see,
A lot of different Saturdays
Happy faces in familiar supercuts,
Montages of their laughter,
No trace of sorrow or loss.

Everything is better in spring.
And the hearts I miss—
They seem happier in their spring.

Grateful I got this vibrant collage;
And more grateful still,
Summer’s sprinting towards me,
among the sun and joy, I’ll be.

Counting the long,
And lonely weeks
Until I’ll get to be
(Smiling)
on the other side of the screen.

Turns out,
I’m a talented repairman.
A messed-up wall?
I’ll fix that patch,
and find the perfect paint,
to colour-match.
A misunderstanding?
I’ll shape the perfect situation,
So It can be flawlessly justified.
Yes. I’m a great repairman.
Because after all—
I’m nothing,
but a destructive tenant,
In the flexible lease,
That is your heart.

“Bodies are bodies and bodies will touch”,

— Inviting and warm, a set, themed as a house—

Same role to play, a different guest star,

Bodies are bodies and bodies will touch,

— Cheers of the crowd. It’s a wrap, credits roll. —

I’ve got a Time Machine.
But I have to warn you,
It’s a painful ride,
going to the past.

As years go by,  I can only recall,
the same feeling of longing has always been in my bones.

My mind is full with conversations,
Yet it’s all so quiet

It sickens me
How it occupied a part of my reason
The way I detailed a map of your heart
In exchange of
A sugarcoated rusty knife in my back

I want nothing to do with you.
I am comfortable in the memories,
safe, knowing I made it through.
Aware of the outcome.
Dealing with the consequences—
Of the bittersweet experience,
The terrible rollercoaster,
Of your intermittent affection.

I’ll imagine
I’m sending you a song
That I know
You’d love.
And in my head
we are dancing
to the rhythm
Of our once treasured
Now forgotten, bitter,
Love.

I missed that call.
And I knew
It was for the better.
You weren’t up
To anything good.
I knew
answering
wouldn’t lead me
to anything good.
And I wish It was
That thought—
the
Impeding,
rational force
The reason
for not
picking up,
But sweetheart,
honestly?
It was 3 am,
I was not that
mentally strong;
I just wasn’t
Awake.

My mother just told me
I’m constantly ‘a slave’ of my own words.
And I have to agree with her.
I can’t seem to ‘own my silences’—
as she so smartly puts it.
I know, I know.
I should ponder on
such valuable insight— yup.
Yet to me…
that was just short for:
 ‘You should shut up’

“So you are into words” he said
“That doesn’t make you interesting, I’ll cut to the chase”
I think of that for every poem I write
For every lyric of every song that gets to my heart