chaiNboli

Memorising warmth is a thing  only poets and lost lovers do. They sit on the floor and search  for their hands for the mundane act  of grabbing a flower. They plaster forbidden kisses  in their mouths making it  a grave and a temple  at the same time. They wait for the next season,  the pilgrims of hope, only to find their hair turning into  the colour of a loap sided smile of tears. They have been skinned noiseless  inside a bath tub,  and have been sinking silently without any complaints. They have been the feudatories  of half awake prayers  which angels used as their heel straps  while marching towards resurrection. Parasites of paradise,  they crumble like unused eulogies,  when questioned about plans for future. With their fingers painted in dark blue, they wish to articulate  how shameful is survival sometimes,  without a will to breathe. Inside their pulmonic pockets,  grief follows them...

Love begins in metaphor, And ends in an anecdot. Like the soft song of a bee  excited to taste honey for the first time. Like the garland adorning the neck of a goddess who tames the prayers of a girl child according to the norms of patriarchy. Like the song of cuckoo  who is not sure about its lineage  and a home it owns. Like the sweetness of an apple in the sourness of mother tongue  Like the desperation of a river  on the October eyelids to meet the sea Like the accent of a mouth  not tired if kissing  Like the shovel of an archaeologist  in search of a hidden golden city  Like the secret encounter of an angel  with a human being, sharing recipe  of forbidden elixir cake Like the magic of lemon pickle  on your tongue after a Italian dinner Like a pebble kept by a mermaid as her namesake after losing her legs to a fisherman Like the sticky candy on the molar of a childless mother's god Like the hesitance of a beggar's hung...

If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...