Poem 17 (Collection 3)

Please forgive me.

I have no reasons to offer,
no answers to give
about what I intend to do to you.
I may leave nicks and cuts
on your heart,
occasionally bruise your soul,
often caressing them with poetry.
I may tear you into shreds
and then
patiently
stitch every piece of you back together.
I may taunt you with silent smiles
and then
tease you with devilish winks.
I may wear a halo and then
haunt you with my ghosts.
I may walk into your room in fine lace
and then
make love to your bones.
I won’t be easy.
I may be your nightmare inside your dreams.
I will pinch you with words
and then
tickle you with the same words.
I will ruin you in ways unimaginable.
You won’t be good enough for any other
woman.
Yes.
That is what I will do to you.
I will ruin you
for me;

for I love you so.

Poem 16 (Collection 3)

I have a box of
broken and misspelled words
scattered and waiting to be
fixed and rearranged.
Here, take them,
arrange them into a meaningful sentence,
and when you are almost done,
I want to know –

whether you would curl up into a question mark,
straighten up into an exclamation,
just roll into a period,
stoop a little into a comma,
or
stretch into a semicolon.

How would you punctuate this sentence?

How would you punctuate me?

A Tale of Miracles

It’s one of those working weekdays, when I wake up even before my alarm goes off and I don’t want to go back to sleep. I remember falling asleep the previous night, while watching the gateway to abstract dreams open and close. As every second trickled by, I was inching closer to the abyss of sleep. The journey to that bottomless pit was beautiful. I will remember every scene from every abstract dream that will most likely translate themselves into full stories for my new book the next morning.

I yawned and tried not to think of the day that blissfully flew by. It was another day today, another sun rising in the east, another addition to the calendar of my life. I looked behind through the mosquito-meshed window that was lodged crookedly into a stretch of green wall. I noticed that the sky still had tints of grey splattered across a vast blue. The sun was playing coy with rain-dodged clouds. Shouldn’t it be the day when I wanted to slyly slip back under the bed sheets and drift back into dear sleep and dreams? But today wasn’t that kind of day. So, I pushed away the bed sheets that I wrapped myself into at night, rolled over to my right to look at my wingless angel. He was sunken in sleep, his chest rising and falling so gracefully, and his body limp – he looked so beautiful, that I sent out a silent “Amen” to the heavens.

I inched closer to him and snuggled him awake. He was unwilling to give in. I caressed him with kisses, persistent to wake him up. I wanted him to give me a miracle – the miracle of his smile. And he did so with eyes still stuck shut. He mumbled a “good morning” but that wasn’t enough. I could see myself growing greedy for more of that smile, for more of that miracle. I nudged him with more kisses. He wriggled drowsily out of my closeness and turned towards me. He flung his right arm carelessly around my neck, dragged himself back closer to me and mumbled again, “good morning”. I smiled and said, “Good morning, baby. Won’t you sing a song for me?”

In his groggy voice, he hummed, “Heart beats fast, colors and promises, How to be brave? How can I love when I’m afraid to fall? But watching you stand alone, all of my doubts suddenly goes away somehow” and hugged me tighter. Yes, a thousand years and he still found me, a thousand years more, and I will find him back again. I was already choking with the tears that surprised themselves into that moment. As though knowing that this is what he intended to do to me, he traced his palm to my cheeks, and wiped those tears away.

He opened his eyes and sealed the moment saying, “I love you, amma.”

A Tale of Inspiration

The alarm next to my bed shrieked at 5 AM. The wine from last night was still weighing heavily on my head. I sighed and plopped out of the linen. I yawned like a wookie. I tied my hair up in a knot and stuck a hair stick into it, pulled on a shrug, and slipped into my flip flops. I quietly closed the door behind me and took a stroll along the rocky shores of the island where I stayed for a medical research along with my group of girls.

I stood facing the sea and watched the sunlight break into rays of pink, red, and orange, against the deep blue sky. And from under the still waters rose a huge golden yellow ball in all humility. I felt the warmth of the sun touch my skin while the sea-kissed breeze tried to cool it. I thanked my alarm for shrieking me awake from my sleep. I had almost forgotten about the wine-fuddled feeling when among the rocks I found a torn piece of paper. It was soaked in salty waters and the current would turn it into shreds and consume it anytime. So I quickly but carefully saved it from under the rocks and let the morning sun dry it up.

It was a handwritten note that read…

Where do you look, my love? Towards the morning sunshine, the blooming flowers, the ice-capped mountains, the blue skies? Where do you look for your inspiration when the creative side of your brain is parched? Look towards me. I’m here standing stripping my heart naked and in all vulnerability. Just a little tilt of your head and turn it towards your left. There! That’s where I stand unmoving, perhaps like a cold stone. But from afar, that is what you will see – a cold shapeless rock. What is a stone to draw inspiration from? Why won’t you come a little closer and see that perhaps I’m not as cold or a stone?

If I could, I’d let you in and walk you around my mind, take you to the most secret towers where sometimes even sunlight shies away and show you the length and breadth of this space that echoes only one word. You. But that is the limitation of creation. It is only so far I go in using words and emotions to tell you how I feel. But that is not enough. So, I shed my masks and bare my heart to you as I ask myself, why I love you.

I flipped the paper, shook it, held it against the sun, and flipped it again desperately but, that was all there was on it. I didn’t miss him more than I did when I finished reading that note.

I thought to myself, isn’t he my inspiration?

Poem 12 (Collection 3)

On a cool summer morning,
you glided by swiftly,
perched yourself on the window of my dim-lit room
and bit love into my frozen heart.
Sometimes you exploded like the moon light
into my dreary night sky
lighting up my world.
And everytime I look into the mirror,
I see you
busy rescuing me from myself
from my grave,
from turning into a ghost
and bringing me back to life.

You are my everyday prayer.