chaiNboli

I will leave you nameless in every poem  I scribble on the soap bar while moving through a florescent market. I will write that you  peeled oranges for me,  while I believed that it meant  glorious innocence. The truth is it meant  abandonment, or a bloodless revolution. A gentle chalk portrait in a drain. Nightgazing while sleep paralysed. You chose to hide in darkness  and left me with god. You took  the form of a bird and  left me in his doorstep. And I sat there, motionless,   like a summer rain in search of puddles. Like the dirt on the toenails of a mother. Like the hollowness of a pigeon's arms. And I know if God opens the door, he will call me grief,  because I forgot my name,  and so does he. // You have turned into an oxymoron, metaphors are outdated//

Watch the sky being dry cheeked and  listen to the cry of a bone of burning building. Take back the last prayer muttered,  treat yourself with grief. Put a wound in the water and  play with the snuffing sharks. Ask the bird who forget its name to find a home in the stiff shoulder of a night lamp. Let the neon hum be called a danger sign. Guard the door during days and  leave it open on nights,  so that apocalypse can be home fast. Tear the bleak warmth of afternoon and sweep the drying frenzy of a shelter. Change your hands and hug a tree. Carve out a smile on face with largest knife. Shape tongue into a shovel  and dig up for poems. Understand that the heart is a sweet trapdoor. Unkiss me, unpoison me. Box my limbs in blue pigment. Open my chest and take yourself back. Point out the symptoms of dead. To die young is a resurrection  when you are a fish in wrong kind of water.

Threatening a spider web  to be preserved is easier than  loving you in my mother tongue. Defining the authenticity of a cold pond  over one's heart is easier than letting  my still born breath  to revolve around your mouth. But, I choose to be the  pearl door knob  that opens to the difficult road,  atleast in my dreams.  Because we have two Iives,  one where am tongue numbed  and the other where I romanticise nightmares. In every dream, we are two gods  holding each other, modelling for a painter, so that in museums they can interpret that we are holding each other's worlds. In every dream, we are two pig pickets  warming up each other's hands,  with shoulders close to each other,  not really heavy with muscle memories. In the other life, am a replaced machine, which violently moves over past  to split it into two, so that I can give you one. In the other life, am handful of earth where you try to grow a d...

I fall in love with you  again and again, until regret becomes a jargon. . . You are a dream marked by absence,  in which a rainbow decided to  leave its blue behind  so that I can write a sappy poem. You are the fingertips of serendipity  that I hold while sliding over landmines, planting volcanoes inside my pores  so that I can name what love is. You are teeth marks of a god,  over an orange yet to ripen,  after forty days of flood ,  so that I can worship them till last breath.  . . My pen is angry at me,  for remembering you again.

I saw your eyes and  decided to postpone my death. If this is not love,  I don't know what it is. I have moved out of Venn diagrams  and passed through curtains of acid rains  just to see you laugh at a stupid kitten. I have kept kisses hidden inside  plastic teeth of a morning dream,  trying to map the tragedy it will follow. You saw me drowning and  decided to offer a hand. If this is not love,  I don't know what it is. You have painted sapphire skies and called the bullet in your forehead an art piece,  just to see me search for a translation.  You have kept your fingers inside nights, afraid of the sunflowers that may  make them mad and helpless.  We have choked on our silences,  promising to keep each other alive,  and  if this not love, then I don't know what it is. We have shared recipes and books,  just to keep each other company  during apocalypse. We have not yet peeled the tangerines of memor...

It is easy to pluck chrysanthemums   than holding him in your hands. Ofcourse love is going to bite you  with its fangs and gift you an open wound. But then you are a tarnished photograph, because his thumb print  is pinned in your jaw line. It is easy to close your mouth  than kissing his lips. Ofcourse you are going to regret. But then you are a fallacy  because you are an orphan  tying to find a home. It is easy to let him go  than pleading him to stay. Ofcourse, you are going to look at   naked stars and cry for years. But then you trip over memories  once in a while, so that you can breath  It is easy to euthanize a poem  than feeding it your blues and yellows. Ofcourse God will look at the  cruelty of the sin you are performing with milk teeth and big eyes But, then you are a beautiful absence,  because you miss his eyes  which are prayer shaped. /Spring has arrived ,  but you still wear sweaters:...

People in love weave  the shades of laugher into hearts,  trying to find wax seals in summer. That is in love, we become collectors. People in love undress clouds slowly, and call it their lovers' names, begging the rain never to was out their love again. That is in love, we become beggars. People on love try to steal the colour of other's eye colour, so that they can  keep it in their pockets, saving them  from hurricanes and sand storms. That is in love we become thieves. People in love hide their blue keys,  afraid of the stains their lovers will find,  that may leave a bullet hole again. That is in love we become secrets. People in love pray for the resurrection  of the roses,their lovers gifted,  until they become colour blind of red. That is in love we become believers. People in love talk in a language  that can't be translated,  like the sighs of a home grown vegetable  when it meets olive oil from a foreign land. That is in...

//Last night I dreamt of a beautiful death, dreamy like  Monet's painting.// This wound,  open like a mouth for confession,  has questioned the authenticity of a god  in thousand languages. This wound,  closed like the brown eyes while kissing,  has seen the colours of the bathroom floor. This wound,  bleeding in colour of a crimson rose,  has taught me the quickest way to leave. This wound, this wound , You. //Now that my legs are tall enough to ring the bell of my guilt , I have let the fractured sky to  have my band aid and toffees. So don't search in pockets for band aids//