Viva

But perhaps the closest I can be

is to drink on ether in a red cup

held just so lightly

and watch green clouds in a glass sky.

And hope.

Only hope that my existence comes to life

in the crimson of your half awake eyes.

No meters, no rhyme, Mircea

are the loves you love.

Mircea, Mircea, Mircea.

Cotton candy in the sky

Just like good times have faded in to tinted memories, so will not sit the hard days. If it rains tonight, it will be summer again. There will be whispers and sweat and difficult loves to love. There will be blue waters and breaths of charm and a new season of old love.

Empty handed

But a heart-ful. Should've spent tonight writing. Should've started watching South-Park much earlier in life.

Relapse

"Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn. "

And yet, Romeo chose to be poisoned by each of its thorns.

Have you ever laughed just to relish most the point where it breaks in to a cackle? Have you ever tuned your earphones just so loud that you can't hear yourself howl? Have you ever spotted a candy stick on a Christmas tree to catch a smell of your childhood for a fleeting moment just to cringe to breathe that moment again? Have you ever taken the name of God in a language unknown and felt like it meant the universe? Have you ever wanted the painter to color your body and soul and yet, take off every hue so brushed? Have you ever wanted love to kiss your feet while your eyes are floored in worship?

Surrender.

You are forever what you have seen and heard, even if you deny having been influenced. Amidst all this confusion, I stand, wondering if I am. And if I am, then what is it that I am searching for? Perhaps nothing. And out of that nothingness sprout the indecisive devises of my futility. Imagining every character as an antagonist, I am striving to finish my story drafted in morbid delusion. I beg for respite at the turn of every page only to become the last words that either get washed away or are smudged by an impatient proof-reader's soiled thumb. There is an alter at the end of the narrow aisle that I walk, where I make deals of my punishments, prejudiced in statutes. 

Has it ever happened that your eyes have succumbed to sleep, losing all your thoughts, and your mind and limbs and dreams have caught fire? And awaken hysteria has never felt better? Feels like I have looked the stars in the eyes and ended up walking in to an ocean. Cold. Water.

Obligations

Living a drop and two,
Drinking a drop and two.
Let it trickle.
And if this life,
Let me live it too.

Woe me with wings,
Still treading on earth.
Memories log.
In dysphoria, sleep
My dreams of mirth.

Pi

I have been scared. Mortified, even. Scared of losing. But what is scarier than losing is the realization that I am scared of losing what I never had. Hopelessly mistaking reveries for memories, I have been strangely swindling with the present.
Last afternoon, I spoke to my plants while watering them. I spoke in gibberish terms of endearment, garbled with fear that someone may hear me. Now I know why people keep pets, everybody is scared. Scared of losing. Losing to Eleanor Rigby.
They are also scared of saying what they mean sometimes, more so than what they don't.
Pinching pockets of love, making myself richer in boiling non-disclosure, I have come a long way. Shy to make eye contact with who I was, eons before I delved in to "serious" relationships of any kind, I feel truly blue.
This post is incomplete, unfinished.

Spin half

I spin the cotton of your being, all night long. 

Am I the old woman on moon? 

For on every full moon night

my heart pants with every footstep

of the silver.

Is my soul a shape-shifter?

Bond

In the silent waters of this lake,
falls a pearl so silent.
Ripples up waves,
and grows to a vortex.


is gumsum jheel ke paani mein,
koi moti aakar girta hai.
ek dayraa banne lagta hai,
aur badhke bhanwar bann jata hai.