Your skies have a spoonful of melancholy
Stirred in cynicism.
To make sterility look
Enigmatic, you must have lived
Close to breaking,
Built a makeshift out of leftovers
From garbage heaps.
Do your veins fork out
Only to find your roots
Holding you back
From severing ties?
You have a way
With Autumn leaves –
There’s no telling, looking
Into your eyes, if that brown
Ever glimmered of oranges and reds –
You have an unhealthy obsession
Of speaking much through
Cryptic signs and half-eaten sentences –
Are you narrating one story?
Or are these fragments, crammed hastily
On threads of indifference?
For I know fragments that come with sharp edges
And no warning signs
Have turned numb.
No wonder, you photograph chaos
While remaining elusive.
4 March 2018
Because we could light up our vices,
And blame our wrecked childhood for it that taught us to spell
Through deep scars underneath our shirts –
We circled past riotous memories of merry-go-rounds and ice lollies,
And with each spin, we hoped to sprout wings from our gaping slits
Or pretended they were lightning bolts,
Depending on the fantasies we took resort to.
Our bodies were warehouses
Of problematic experiences and muted traumas under the garb of
Force-fed thrice a day,
Washed down with cheap painkillers –
Sometimes, that was the only means to escape;
That, and the blue sky.
Even now, we look for that eight-year-old stray
Hiding behind the closet drapes,
To apologise for the monsters we made.
We are still learning to water our cracks
And untangle our organs from their cage.
24 June 2018
Even silence, was once a noise
Forced to seal its mouth
With a duct tape
For screams should be stifled
Down your throat
Deep in, and walled.
Your arms are like waves
That leave me inundated –
I often forget how seaweeds have no place
On the surface, where everything looks perfect
Like manicured nails on Sunday brunch
With twenty odd faces and fatuous smiles –
I’ve never been more lonely
In a crowd.
I dream of quiet afternoons and a dozen tales
Where I am shuffling in the background
As a mirage to unseeing eyes
And mine, looked on, and on
When this sky above our head changes shades
I wonder if you look away
I wonder if you still make
A home out of your unspoken questions
Or you pile them in a dark room
Love, I look for you
In every broken frame,
Every unfulfilled wish
Every Autumn sky
I look for you
In every fragment of
2 March 2018
How do I love myself? –
A draggled mess of rotting flesh
Gift-wrapped in a pretty package
Of plastered smiles and frayed dreams
And absurdities –
I have measured my highs
In varied stages of ecstasy
And one of them even made me believe
That my indifference is leading a double life
My 2 A.M. self and 6 P.M. beliefs
When my skin changes colour,
Like dull Autumn leaves
No Spring or Summer could be
What would you know?
Of violence painted as battle scars
Of monosyllables cloaking my S.O.S
Like a magic trick…
I won’t look at my hands and wonder
Why my fists weren’t firm enough
To hold back the vestiges
Of our meaningless sighs.
18 February 2018
For every utterance
Would raise a smoke
And I, emaciated from the lack of
Would slowly creep into the furnace
To find my home.
I have cold feet from nightmares
Where I’m falling into an abyss
Of your seduction, your words moisten
My inner thighs –
I’ve stopped looking for distorted mirrors
In the eyes of strangers
Who force my nonchalance
Into tight-fitting clothes
And put me up for show.
I rise in smoke –
For in this deafening silence,
We are alone together, tracing outlines
Of our nameless failures
Packed in little boxes with felt pen labels –
We have climbed into the box,
To feel its teeth, sink into our flesh
Tearing us apart,
One memory at a time –
We have toyed with the idea
Our petty narratives
4 February 2018
There was a girl who wanted
A ticket to the stars.
With a galaxy in her lungs, and peppermint eyes
She rummaged through dumpsters
Of ashen faces that spoke a bunch of decayed lies.
And on certain nights, she let out
A strangled cry.
She played with marbles,
And wholesome words
For which she apologized –
There was a girl with creepers of clichés,
And an obsessive need to spell her name
In case you missed the ‘Y’.
Her kisses tasted like echoes
And question marks from quoted lines.
Along the edge of a spider’s web
In an aquarium full of fireflies,
She smoked her lover’s cryptic words
Soaked, in a vat of contradictions.
To lilac Springs
And paper cranes
With broken wings.
28 December 2017
image courtesy: Sourav Chakraborty (https://www.facebook.com/Isglad?fref=hovercard&hc_location=chat)
No, I don’t think of you anymore.
My memories have turned into pulp,
In a clogged sink of broken smiles and practical solutions
That I clean out everyday so that
My whimsical fancies can still flow
My kitchen counter is a diary
Of songs I stopped singing midway
And tears I couldn’t hold back –
I still cry on some days, in this city that feels like
The arms of a new paramour
With some vestiges of the cologne you wore on the last day
We made love.
Each time I rewind my memories,
They become a little rusted
A little faded
A little tattered on the edges;
I remember how you scorned at sentimentality.
I still listen to your songs on some days
And try to sing my own
But I can hardly identify my voice anymore.
I left a part of me with you on the last day we met
And maybe, it still haunts my favourite bookstores and cafés.
I’m not returning to you, not now
And even if I do
I’ll be your déja vu
You wouldn’t know where to place…
24 December 2017