never knew you
except from
far away

never loved you
except from
far away

never
except for
in poems and colors

and  
...
you know

i never wanted to give
you anything more
than what you wanted.

tonight i was thinking
if the moon were one
of the eyes of God

would it rain every night,
or some nights shine so bright
that even the sleepiest birds

couldn't help singing?
i know
you remember.

dear india,
just one
question:

if you're gone, which you are,
and i'm gone, which i am,
gone like refugees,

why do you
keep showing up
in my dreams?

I love the smell of orange most.
It doesn't go well with purple,
but it represents everything I am not.

I make up for my lack of sunshine by wrapping it around me,
a neckerchief in any season.
I cover up the cracks that leak blue, the scent of
the sleepiest lavender.
I'd rather be gold, a heady sharp awakening - compared to the wispy breeze that settles on my shoulders.
I am tired of sleeping when I'd rather be citrus, shining.

Every time I unwrap a chocolate
I think of Shil Grandpa.

The thin and tall man forever in a long coat
Towered over the sandstone roads of the sleepiest town
Where only steam hoots broke the silence
And a lone tree on the ground of Ghost Bungalow
Still spewed smoke of the thunder that burned it!

His house was at the eeriest corner of the town
Too large for just one man to inhabit it
The hush on its tree lined walkway was deafening
And the garden uncared just grew like wild!

He would stop the moment he sighted a child
Dip his hand in the sweet mystery of his coat pocket
And by magic wand would appear a chocolate!

Sweet tooth child don’t ask for one more, he would say
There are more to give, all the children coming my way.

In the steams whistle his words would fly like a song
In the afternoon’s shadow an old man gone wild
Sweetening his void with the joy of a child
One more still many more before he was free
His day was done and pocket empty!

Whenever I unwrap a chocolate
Grandpa Shil comes back to say

*Stop before you put it in mouth
There’s a child coming your way.

you had a little over a decades worth of experience over me, and you always knew what to say

not in comforting way,
but in a scripted way.

all your lovers are told the same sweet things at some point or another, it's all a play.

it's funny how I used the word play,
since that's precisely what you did to me.

you took advantage of how young I was in comparison to you (how dare you) and manipulated me in ways I wouldn't even wish upon my worst enemy.

when you left me
I swore to myself
I would never love someone
the way
I loved you.

and that was true,
because I learned to love people
in healthier ways
and not become dependent on them
for my own happiness and sanity.

I thought I couldn't live without you when in fact I started living when you left me.

you were my first love, but now that I'm older
I don't think it was love, really

I was just a sad, tired-eyed 13 year old girl
who wanted what she shouldn't and couldn't have

and although I'm still sad, and still have the sleepiest irises to ever exist on the face of this earth,

I'm older and realize how being with you forever was irrational in the first place.

The night holds its knife
Close to the threads that hold my soul
It stretches its fingers across the blade
And sends me surging into the starry skies

Until the morning comes with its blanket
Covering all of me with its threads
Renewing me with purpose and life
Each time it stretches

With each passing hour
A frail voice consumes me
I'm left paranoid and hollow
By the time the night creeps in

Like an old stranger walking in my head
Their footsteps rattle me
Shattering the interweaving
That hold this mask in place

My nerves weaken as does my will
Until I think upon the lilies
Blooming in the sleepiest of dawns
I let go of my blanket

if i am the pen, she is the ink
if i am a lion, she is my fangs;
she hated my metaphors
how many different ways could i write what she meant to me?
i think she got sick of being compared to the moon
or how she moves my heart like waves crashing onto rocks
there are no more words in my tongue that i can use to describe what i feel for her
she sees it as a curse
i don’t know what metaphor i could write, to ask her to come back to me
instead of writing my next magnum opus, something that could grab the attention of even the sleepiest soul
i stare at this rectangular screen, looking at the last message i sent her
a poem, not my strongest work
a last ditch effort, that if she read it, she’d jump through the screen
i’d kiss her hands, and she wouldn’t see the strain of my fingers, with words etched on my fingertips
but instead it sits there, collecting dust
like some antique, in a shop where no words live
there's another metaphor
i left her with this
if i am the poet, you will always be the words
i think she hated my work, so the fate i resigned to her, of being my muse
maybe there was no worser fate than this
my ego sits on my forearms, and my love resides on my back
hunched, writing, crying, feeling, seething
i like to say i’m a failed poet
the person i wrote for, doesn’t think about me anymore
now my work is hollow, a facsimile of my thoughts
incoherent , rambling
if you are still reading this
i cherish and love you truly, and i wish that i was able to capture even a fraction of your smile onto paper
i like to say i’m a failed poet, i’ve run out of thoughts now