Happenstance

Into the Night

There is something about old poems, the rawness, the imperfections and the silly little things. I found one such lost poem today. Therefore, I raise my glass to the younger me, to whom the world was simpler and hopeful. Cheers!

I love walking with night.

Bokeh and splotches of light,

pockets of shadow,

dew wetted  park rails.

They make me feel alone no more.

Every door I walked out of,

have added shades to me.

They don't fade.

With time I get deeper.

I look back without a twinge

Of pain or regret.

The layers of night

peel before my eyes

It leads me on and on.

This path is endless

All I want is to walk

I inhale the chilly night

and I don't breathe out-

capturing moments within me,

in my lungs and skin.

And when I die I shall send

bit and pieces into the wind.

My moments will stay,

while I become dust

and get blown away!

Maria

It was half-past moon when 

I heard the sobbing.

Echoing through walls,

 raining upon my window.

I could hear your quivering lips

 on the other side!

Were you shy Maria? 

Were of afraid of coming to me?

Did you think I’d sprinkle your tears

on the wounds you gave me?

I can hear your smell through the door-

I put my hand on the knob,

and feel the heat of your skin.

I’ve been standing where you left me Maria!

Survived through all those men 

making love to you!

I saw your broken shadow 

twitching under the bedspread.

Every time I wanted to dip 

my fingers in your chest,

and pluck the black-hole 

from your heart!

But now that you’re at the door Maria

I’d kiss your voice clean of all the sobs.

Pluck stars from the nest of night

to plant them in your hair.

And every time the wind kisses your neck,

a song will be born in the

black-hole of your heart.

P.S: Falling in love with women, especially older women is a risky affair!

Constellation

I packed my bag

and left home.
To find a constellation.
Cramped roads,

opening to dingy alleys

where you collided

into me.
I walked past and

turned back.
In those eyes of yours,

charcoals burned.
I took a handful of coins.
Tossed them into air.
All your sorrows

jingled and fell.
I put you to sleep
inside my bag and
got lost in the crowd.
Traipsed on tire-marks
This way I travelled
all along the world.
Then standing on

the cliff,
emptied my backpack.
You drifted through

the night air,

Out of sight’s reach.

I saw a constellation.

Free. Burning. Bright. 

Moons & Clocks

I wait for the moon

to show up,

but I fall asleep.

The clock on my wall

falls too.

It breaks into pieces,

splinters and shards. 

The hour-hand dislodges

heavy, like

my ageing mother. 

The minute-hand still

ticks, like

I  for you,

when we met. 

A jagged central crack-

deep in shadows

like a burial site. 

I lost my clock. 

So I wait for the moon. 

It does not show up. 

Or may be,

it does! 

I never find out. 

I keep falling asleep. 

Blue

I had coffee-length conversations
With you.
Being strangers in chat rooms
Smoky cafes.
And the colour blue.


Words left our mouths.
Words did not leave trails.


The clink of metal against
china
Snowy sugar spilled between
cups.
No shaky priors.
No dreamy posts.
Just the colour blue.


Legs tucked away under tables
Close,
but not touching.
Painfully folded,
but safe.
Being strangers in chat rooms
and smoky cafes.
In the colour blue.

Only the veins standing out
Near my wrist and yours
and in them both
The colour blue.

That Boy

I found you on the sidewalk
leaning on the rusty rails
drumming your fingernails
on them.

I think you were thinking
of long-lost kites,
few dramatic lies
that untethered them.

I was just a fleeting face
in a passing car,
or a crowded bar,
where you had been.

I've seen you everywhere-
time and again,
making bargains,
for things that weren't yours!

Funny thing is that
I've done the same
played the never-ending game
over and over again.

Sometimes I wonder
what would have
happened if you too
had noticed me?




P.S: Recycling an old poem I wrote quite some time ago. Chanced upon the song that inspired me to write this, so gave in to nostalgia. Haven't changed the bits I don't like anymore, because imperfection is the charm of reminiscence. 

Post Script

Towards the end of our days with each other, a fervor to make good memories overtook us. So much were we aware of the impending end that we embarked upon a furious attempt to make as many moments memorable as we could. We took pictures of everything we did together, we went on regular dinner dates, he sang to me every night before I fell asleep, I woke him up with a kiss every morning, we shared all our meals, read books that were each other's favourites- our efforts were tiring us. We lost ourselves in making memories.The very little time we had at our disposal was wilting away,unnoticed by us. We were obsessed, thinking of spending the rest of our lives with the memories we made during these last days. But we were completely oblivious that the best of the memories were the ones that caused the worst kind of pain. We were hurtling towards a landslide which was to bury us in the coming days.