December 12, 2012 § 14 Comments
The letter she would write to him
The happy memories they were to create
The curtains she was to choose for their room
The wines they were to collect
The crystal bowls she was to love
The Bayern posters he was to adore
The saree she was to wear for their engagement
The quotes of marriage they were to laugh over
The unconditional love she was to recieve from his parents
The old, old dictionary his paa was to gift her
The home they were to build together.
In minutes it was gone.
Burnt to ashes by the fire they set on it.
Do you still see the memories we
have to make, when you look into my eyes?
November 7, 2012 § 17 Comments
I tried to stitch myself into
it, but nothing held.
I am okay. It’s just that before
felt like a million rainbows,
superimposed over each other.
And i linger, as if still waiting
for them to magically reappear.
It was this hour, just as early
darkness fell, that you would come
to me. With your clarity, and your
carefree-ness. Stepping into the
wall i’d built. Slowly. And steadily.
I am okay. It’s just that i have been
impatient. Very much. I thought
i knew everything you didn’t tell,
and understood everything you did.
And i believed things will be fine,
with time. Silly, silly girl.
What is can be as elusive as
what is not. Both beguile, and
neither stays. Or sticks. I am lost
in this transition.
From what we were, to what we
are, to what we will be.
It is winter here.
August 20, 2012 § 35 Comments
Standing on the line that
divides my heart and my head
Numbed by doubt and anxiety
after nights of mind-fucking
Relieved to not feel the pain,
Longing to be released from
this utter sadness
Caught in a storm of thoughts
that lead me nowhere
Drowning in self-doubt
and confusion every night
And yet not drowning, so there
is scope to be inflicted again
The dreams become awful,
the shadows haunt me
I only feel myself sinking in
depths as i write this.
August 7, 2012 § 33 Comments
Photo Credit: http://www.facebook.com/pensive.polaroid
In stark black lines over black
The cane toy-raven
With lumps and warts drawn as rounds
Inked black eyes
With wings ready to take me away
Ah! and that blackness
A beak that lets me suck my own joy
And my hoarse cry that startles me at times.
Am i not, too,
made for someplace?