On Sunday afternoons, there is nothing subtle about being in love The nuance slips away with the remainders of my acute failings On a day, too slow to escape awareness The exploits, and bits of glory, Are left but for all to see— the clayed grief, the empty fall, the sideway stares On Sunday afternoons, …
I have had guests overstaying their welcomeIt’s not unusual, nothing newSome eat at my kitchen table nibbling away the last of everything I haveSome water my plants, some dust my roofSome bitch about the view, some move my furniture loudlySome bring friends, some bring lovers Eventually, they leave — one by one, or at a go I can …
I can break a rhyme in two and show you where I bleed I feel I must warn you — I hide a shushed world between these few words I hide a letter I didn’t write, but had every intention toI hide each of those times when strange people on busy streets and rickety subways reminded me just …
I write poems for a broken boy On a rainy Tuesday night — Hung breathless by the chaos I move my rhymes slowly Without a whimper Without a cut My rhythm quiet, Quiet enough to escape his world Damage, just enough to cut Often deep enough to wound I write poems for a broken boy …
On a day just as windy as today, just as jarring and temperamental, I met Alamara Gostev. The sun had risen above the unabashed tall buildings, carpeting an exhausted Manhattan with a blinding glimmer. Wary, as I always am of new people and circumstances, I pushed the door for Magnolia Cafe on 59th Street for …
I heard,it was a red moon the day you were bornThe sky, exalted, crushed the stars and spread them over the black oceanI heard, two of them took shelter in your eyes The day you were born,the waves inched closer to the land, to hear your first cryThe kites swam against the current and landed at the door where your motherheld you singing lullabies The …
It’s a pleasure; to love you like my heart is conducive to phenomenal pain, and to mourn like recovery will eventually unfold Calibrating the rose tints of my glasses, I choke on the colors I couldn’t afford But, It is a pleasure. Indeed. What else is to be lost? We have lost possibilities, maybe a …
My tea burns on the stove The late sunlight lazily squirms through the kitchen blinds – dizzy and drunk It’s November. I turn a page of the yellowed calendar The winds travel swifter and the air-stings are colder My roommate hangs another string of lights over the empty walls We try to make a stranger’s …
As a seven-year-old, Independence Day entailed waving flags in the morning school assembly and leaving with a handful of orange candies after. It suffices for a kid who wants to do nothing but get a weekday off. Come to think of it, as an adult; I have wanted the same. A weekday off. ‘Independence’ has …
I have been bad at goodbyes, no matter how closely I cherish them. You write your messages, hug your farewells, get your papers in order, but somehow it still drains you empty on your last night. Leaving Bangalore was bittersweet. I always say this to my friends, that if Bhubaneswar was a long drawn out …