My Rose


your gaze, not meeting mine
is it filled with longing or not?
even if repressed, but in your heart
is there any love or not?

count those swelling heartbeats and tell me
like mine, is your heart too, restless or not?
even if repressed, but in your heart
is there any love or not?

those moments when love is at its prime
tell me for that one moment, are you waiting or not?
your gaze, not meeting mine
is it filled with longing or not?

i am warring with the world on the hopes of you
the same way in yourself, do you believe or not?





I feel a wall inside my chest
empty with no paintings
It grows vast and outside my body
and captures me in its hollow

The wall is painted the color of loss
like losing all to dust
I place a tombstone on the wall
so I no longer fear or hope or lust

Everything stays silent and still
Days go by and nothing haunts
The paint on the wall is wearing off
and soon one day the wall is gone

I look within and see sweet daisies
all around the headstone
It is painted the color of love and reads in bold
“I’m here. I’m home.”


Melody of Love

Let us be like music
merging into each other
colliding and collapsing
and rising again

We’d flow along the silence
like peace to each other
not starting anywhere
not having any end

Passing Time

Do you ever feel that you’re in a space too vast? Like inside you there is a hollow slowly filling up with shattered things. And everything that you thought was insignificant is piling inside of you only to graduate into something more real.

I’m reminded of two things. Virginia Woolfs suicide note unfortunately, and Maya Angelou’s poetry.

I know it all sounds extremely sad to this point in my story here. But only when you peel off this sadness would you discover something beautiful. Something that I’m trying to convey.

In her last letter to her husband, also her suicide note, Virginia Woolf wrote as the closing lines “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.”

I leave it upon you to understand how connected despair and desire are, love and tragedy, or compromise and content.

And even though I feel mellow I’m beginning to appreciate the times.

Here’s one of my favorite poems by Maya Angelou. It’s called Passing Time.

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning.




i close my eyes and lay there
quick streams of tears make its way to my cheeks
i’m not crying

but my heart is.

i always say water is my element
i must drown and come back afloat
that should be my release

have you ever been afloat for so long that you forgot how to swim?

sometimes, i just pause and think of being under water

for some, jumping off a cliff is liberating,
the thrill, the hyperactivity of the brain

for me, losing all thought is the freest it can be

when i’m under water, i don’t even remember myself
its like being one with the ocean

sea life will never make you conscious of your existence
the fish just pass by doing their thing
and you can be right at the brink of the earth
but so far away from the worldly things

and you will be forgotten
and you will forget

And in that moment everything will be infinite.

How vast is your Moment?


A moment is what it is before it’s gone.

And that’s how long some of my moments last.

What I am trying to say is, some moments are so minute and yet they paint a full picture, and in that they qualify as a moment. Like a hundred moods, or sometimes a hundred options of food, or phrases from songs or notes read long ago… pass by so quickly in my head, leaving me unsure of which thought to latch on to. I want to tell you about each of these. Like, why is what is important, how it became what it is and who did it used to be. Each of these is a question that nudges multiple multifold stories. If only I could begin to tell you, if only it was possible to.

I would try to tell you more but for now the moment is receding and I can hold on no longer…

Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try.

-from The Weary Kind


Perhaps it was always meant to be like this. You were meant to be with her and I was meant to think of you on lonely nights. They call the happy ending to be Love. What you both have is Love. But what I have? That can’t be love. Can it? We’ll just call it destiny.

It makes me curious and compels me to dwell upon-
Do questions arise from within us and answers sought from outside?
or is it the other way round-
All questions arise from the outside world and answers are actually found within?

Letters to Romeo: Part II

Sometimes we touch people’s lives in ways we don’t understand. We are unaware, the world is unaware but there is one person who knows what happened.

In your story, I am that person.

It happened many years ago and it happened too quickly. We were young and foolish but we had more than that in common. We found each other in starvation. We found each other like food; like words are found by thoughts. But life will always be bitter-sweet, like the end of a great movie or the last page of a book, you were gone like a story, a song.

I knew it then and I have known since. Sometimes doubtful, sometimes sure, but the thought has never deserted me. And it takes courage to say it but I’m not afraid anymore.

I have always loved you.


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