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 love we create a civilization.
People in love smile like fools, 
a sight so holy that it will make 
angels sleep with shame .
That is in love we become heaven.
People in love are disgusted by 
saliva syllables, but still they will 
kiss each other, 
passionately and frantically.
That is, in love,we become good actors.
People in love pluck garden oranges 
and force feed each other, 
wondering about the miracles of nature.
That is, in love, we become mothers.
People in love lick the tongue of an ice cream inappropriately and call it sweet 
only to see their lover hating the flavour.
That is in love we become apologies.
People in love repeat how much they love each other, with metaphors and similies rather than formulas,  followed by 
a tender whisper in the back throat. 
That is in love we are failed mathematicians.
People in love surrender 
to whims of their lover, like a toy to a child  
or a child to a parent : a noble cause.
That is in love we become slaves.
People in love move like parallel lines because the stars long ago exploded 
to write a future where they will be wanders.
That is in love we become poets.




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