Time

Tonight, the moon shines
Just like a decade ago
With a little fire, glowing yellow
Setting memories aglow.

At my bedside, a lamp comes alive
After long; golden lines slanting
At a familiar, pleasing angle
Gazing upon these words, knowingly.

Dusted and brimming, nostalgia
Arrives — moments beam up
Floating slowly through this
Tropical air — and it is a moment, pregnant.

This rain, enthusiastic, torrential,
Seeped with the spirit of another time,
Awakens a longing, tugs at my heart,
Turns my soul on.

So much the same, so fleeting
It remains. This night must
Not leave. For as dawn encroaches,
I’ll be lost, my past vacant, yet again.

IMG_6481.JPG

Origami

On my body, you will find

The lines you’re looking for. These creases

are just old enough – for the lines

To not become borders. impenetrable.

Impregnable. Trace your fingers across

My solar plexus, and you will

Find

 

[Pigeons soar alongside, I see them

Racing to stay in my line of vision

As we hurtle on, epiphanies within

Sight. They throw themselves

At me only to hit duplicitous glass. Now,

The light turns liquid and flows down

The cracks they leave behind.]

 

                                       The light

Of a million galaxies trickling down.

If you listen closely, there’s bird song

Too. You will bend me, and I will

Comply. Rehearsed; this routine isn’t

A lie. But it isn’t the truth either.

 

There are only questions in these folds.

 

These folds that are grey with age.

 

This is an age unwilling to bend.

But around the bend, lies the answer.  

Static

The drum stick ricochets off skin

Like the flutter of wasp wings.

They dance – thrust, throw, shove, grind –

Frenzied, hurried. Dirty

They’re pigeons in heat.

The tiny hair on their cheeks has risen.

Accidents happen – gaze, chests, bottoms, lips.

Around them, within them, their own blood

Turns to sweat. The air turns musky;

Their voices, husky. Zoom in, out of focus.

There’s nothing but the sound of them

Breathing. Nothing; but them. 

Glitter

I lie in a bed not made for me,
Wrapped in sheets that smell of you.
You, who stay away, far far away,
a thousand miles, a million galaxies
away, in the room adjoining. There,
I spy you, hiding among shadows that
grow as evening turns to night. Sometimes,
what you seek is not what you find.

I am shrouded in darkness – I want
to believe you search for me just as I
turn to you. There is much I imagine as I
breathe you in, but lesser that I forget as I
air you out. We are lost in the dark and to each
other. The night has worn us. You glimmer
pale, reflecting your thoughts. Sometimes,
the people who save us, also enslave us. 

You plague me – as you are and as you could be. 
You are a warlock, an addiction; a spell cast,
a charm thrown, another self invoked. I am as afraid
of seeing as I am of dreaming, for I thought I saw me
when i saw you. Illusions must not last. Now, we
must sink the stone. Before it ends, the surface
will shiver. Now, we must disappear. Because
sometimes, we are just the dust, not the gold. 

The Story-Teller

Everyday, she tried, without success,
to string it all up together. She sat
cross-legged, eyes clamped shut; stood
on her head, belly sucked in; lay
prostate, airing her thoughts; walked
painfully slow, measuring her step.
And yet, it all stared back at her,

Mussed up, strewn about, incoherent.

Mere words, she looked at them,
lolling about in the sun, making her 
sweat buckets, trying to take stock,
like a mother of triplets: one produce, 
but thrice the effort. She plucked and 
pleaded and coaxed and berated:
“Gather around!”; but they wouldn’t listen. 

Within her, she knew, there was a story
waiting to be told; a song to be sung, 
a landscape to be painted. Everyday,
she told herself, is a new start, for today
we shall finally voice. Love, war, peace, hunger,
passion, pain and introspection — today
was her day of expostulation. 

But the days stayed mum, whispering through her.

Them words be tricky, smug little imps,
Hanging off the edge but never diving.
Them words, they laugh at her — now old, 
grey and frail — taunting her still, playing
hide and seek. They still rushed past her,
and once, she was certain, she caught a
pity-soaked whisper: “You are the story, m’dear!”

Momentum

This time, they sought
the dark corners of the Web
to hide in. Anonymous, shedding
off all identity, this is where
they would let it blossom. For now.

They’d tried, and failed,
to keep a low profile. No public park,
heritage monument, or obscure cafe,
brimming over with so many like them,
could contain the music

Of their rising, overwhelming
affection for each other. Public
display was another matter —
They weren’t sure who had earned
the right to witness those moments.

They always came, invading
upon their continent of silent,
imagined kisses. But this at least,
they believed, was worth it.
Worth protecting. Worth preserving.

Even matchbox-sized rooms,
with the sun drawing needle-thin
lines across the terrain, was not
enough. They always came,
wondering what was being strangled

Or birthed. Contain. Compress and
compose. Words, now, were
their choice of coitus. Only, they feared,
no turn of phrase ever invented
could describe the enormity of

This accelerating crescendo.