A screen

So when something breaks,

it’s not always fragile –

it just means that you can’t go back

to the initial impact.

Two broke mirrors

just means more blood.

Two scarred, ruptured veins

just means the bearer survived.


What’s left is –

scuffed footprints on the soul,

smudged fingerprints on the heart


shot passion into the mind.


It’s hard to read you,

for your book is full of ripped pages

and finely nipped words

written in indiscernible ink

with transparent chapters.

But I know you’re so full of life.


It’s only these lonely youth nights

that I am assured to cause trouble to you.

Who would know about

we growing old together,

let alone always and forever.


Little know this story –

every letter in it,

every word in it,

every sentence in it,

every paragraph in it,

every prompt in it,

every punctuation mark in it.

Little would query so little.


Sometimes the emotional investment

bothers so much more than the physical presence.


And yet,

these eyes of mine plead for your starlit gazes,

these lips of mine long for your mushy fluffy clouds,

this body howls for your sunny bright mysteries,

this mind stretches for your earthy galaxies,

so yes,

I crave your universal style.


I have forgotten my search

for the unknown findings

that requited unfounded love.


I treasure this map –

I’ll wait in this silence

on your “x” on the map

until you find me.


I’ve missed things quite terribly though.

But it’s the way you breathed

blossoms, roses and lillies

into my lungs.

They’re so fresh nonetheless.


I don’t usually fear things,

be it anything for that matter,

but I chance the day

when this glass smile

finally crashes into

a million pieces of us.


It’s such a silent January,

quiet, equivocal days.

In contrast to a deep,

deep blue December.

The trees inside lost their leaves

and swallowed terrorizing weeks,

where I chased myself

to nightly apartments,

to paces of making it in a day,

to holes in the skin,

to streetlights lit nights,

to the brain without feelings.


I can move in slow motion

and dive into exhumed emotions

that feel lesser like an ocean

and more like tears I’ll never cry.

I’ve fallen too deep in the pens,

but I don’t feel trapped.

I feel happy to swallow ink and

to smile while eating poetry for

every meal of the day.


It’s less and less confusing with you around.

If not me, could you stay

a little longer than forever?

Perhaps these shades might paint you to me.


You silently wish my wounds healed

quicker than any band-aid

can offer.

You want to be more than words.

You know I am like the

the small blues in the flames.

More than the element that

you’re amazing, you’re beautiful,

I am glad you are genuine.


Sometimes my beautifully mixed colors

are for a tiny framed painting exclusive to you.

And I love it more

and more.

Because as you said it,

and I knew it so unsubtle –

everything will be fine.



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