Poem 15 (Collection 3)

Who cares for colors when the lights are bleak and dying?
Who cares for dreams when sleep plays the coy mistress?
Who cares for love when the heart has stopped beating?
Who cares?
Who cares for morning kisses when her side of the bed is empty?
Who cares for beauty when the mascara is dripping off her eyes?
Who cares for nights when the stars refuse to shine on us?

How do I find answers in the blank spaces of my head?
How do I stay still and find my calm when silence is haunting?

Perhaps,
I will find my answers when
I find her.

A Tale of a Handwritten Note

Dearest,

I write to you because I’m afraid I will drag you with me into this depressing feeling. This is the closest I can come to articulating how I feel. Is it okay to dwell and stay in this feeling a little longer?

I sit. I stare. Into space. Into nothingness. And wonder why my thoughts have run dry. Why it feels like my feet are tied to a heavy rock and thrown into a bottomless sea. I’m sinking. Slowly. Smoothly. Seamlessly. Straight down to nowhere.

I think to myself – how beautiful this feeling is. Is this what the world calls melancholy? I’m so moved and overwhelmed by this feeling that tears well up in my eyes. But the world is uncaring and cruel, so I retract them to where they came from. – from the arid spaces of my heart, from hollow bones, from blood-drained veins.

And then, I sink some more.

It is darker. The darkness grows colder. The coldness freezes my blood as sharp icicles spread rampantly through every nook and corner of my heart. I turn blue. Bluer than the damp grey skies. Bluer than grey! Bluer than grey? What kind of mindlessness makes such a far-fetched comparison? But it is dark down here where colors seize to exist. What is a perturbed, numb brain to do?

Isn’t black also beautiful and all the shades of grey that lead up to the pitch black of darkness?

This coldness too feels warm. How is this possible? Perhaps melancholy is such – like a parasite that sucks every happy memory out of the mind. And I begin to be engulfed and encompassed by this feeling. Am I giving in to it or simply letting it be? See how it thrives on the life of me, on my soul. Like the leech that sucks the very essence of the life of its prey.

It is sad and painful. But it is beautiful and doesn’t hurt.

Perhaps it is my own funeral. No?

I’ll make my home here. In darkness. In a colorless world. In this bottomless tunnel where no one can find me and bring me back to life.

May be I will find my colors and then you can find me again!

Love,

Poem 19 (Collection 3)

I want to be there
where the gossips of gods
the winds carry away to mankind.
I want to be there
where the thunder rumbles and grumbles
and the lightening flashes her grandeur,
where the skies turn from a dark blue
to shades of grey.
I want to be there cradled
amongst cold rain drops that bubble
in the heavy womb of monsoon clouds.
I want to be there
where gelid winds freeze thoughts of you
into beautiful icicles that adorn my heart.
I want to be there
resting on the curtained crescent moon
fishing stars for a rainy night
and star dust for the magic in our lives.

Take me closer to locked heaven’s doors,
to sweet memories of you.

Poem 9 (Collection 3)

I said to him,

“I could show you around the
dark dungeons of my heart
where the ghosts of my past reside.
Would you think it a strange place
to leave behind your footprints on?
I wouldn’t want to scare you away,
I wouldn’t expect you to understand either,
because you were never broken like me.
Would you stay to exorcise my heart
and help me love again,
if staying is
forever?”

Poem 6 (Collection 3)

A touch –
quiet and slow;
the warmth that poured out of those fingers
that slided effortlessly around my waist
and pulled me closer to him.
I cushioned my head on his shoulder,
while the fragrance from around his neck
shot up to my head.
I drowned in the tingling feeling
that ran up and down my spine.
It mattered how easily I melted like ice in his embrace,
for it was a fleeting moment in love
and it will be a long night spent away from him –
a long breathless night.