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 …
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 …