ORBITS

 I wear left over love in my wrists and when ever a guy smiles at me, 

I look at it reminding myself of its weight dragging me to the bathroom floor with 

over flowing bath tub mingling with bitter tears.

I hold colours in my cornea afraid about filling my pockets with laughter of the child in the park, running.

I write haikus in dirty linen with cheap markers.

I dry my socks in the sun, smelling of peaches .

The girl next door sings a song for me on my birthday and it's suffocating grip makes my bones to stay heavy.

Take a deep breath, 

I scold myself while thinking why both 

love and blood are tinted in same shades of crimson.

There is a bag of sins no one can see in my shoulders which are moisturised with apricot cream, filling my collarbones and hiding my lucky mole. 

Nails digged in old floral bed sheets while a quill of blade draws new patterns in skin. 

A wasp whispering about it's travel to the next city where he kisses his love. 

Alice playing with the white rabbit not knowing that she can't run fast when wolf comes.

Heart breaks hurt more than world wars in history, I but you can't tell that loud. 

Because we are supposed to flush truths in our toilet just like cigarette butts. 

There are no more angel wings carrying smuggled love letters wrapped in oily sandwich papers because God kicked them out to the hell. 

Time is a run away father who is afraid to kiss the rosy nose tip of a child while pain is the mother eating cherries dipped in cocaine. 

I bury myself in a digital skin

 so smooth and glowing. 

Traitor. Traitor.

They say everything happens for a reason. 

Am still trying to find a stupid reason,

While running around like a planet 

in zig zags , without orbits.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am yearning for death.  Forever longing for it...achingly..When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it ca...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more

The Unanswered Ring: Returning to Decision to Leave

Some films don’t scream.They breathe. Softly. Like someone lying next to you who doesn’t dare touch you. “Decision to Leave” wasn’t a thriller to me. It was a letter never sent.A wave that crashed but never reached the shore. I watched Seo-rae fold her silences like laundry. Every movement quiet, every word a disguise. And yet—every glance, a plea: “See me. Even if you don’t believe me.” And Hae-jun— he didn’t fall from a mountain.He dissolved, little by little, like a man walking into the sea,telling himself it’s just water. The film didn’t ask me to watch. It asked me to listen. To sighs. To footsteps. To hunger that never became desire.What kind of love is this? One that doesn’t kiss, but watches.Doesn’t hold, but follows from a distance. Doesn’t beg, but leaves quietly, hoping to be remembered...The kind that hides in plain sight. The kind that tells you,“You’re better off without me,” but still checks if you’ve eaten... A Scene I’ll Never Forget: (And perhaps, never forgive) Seo-r...
Read more