Friday, 25 November 2016


I woke up half an hour late today
Hit the snooze button
And went back to bed
I don't remember what my alarm clock sounds like anymore
Your patient voice no more echoed in my ears
I was never a morning person, you see
How could I ever be
The crescent moon lay inside you 
And you lay right beside me
Your mornings started way too early for me
Your angelic voice would hit me like a serenade, too sweet
But instead I'd pull you in
Wrap myself around your brilliant light
In my dark bubble as you tried to break free, giggling

I woke up half an hour late today
Dismissing my alarm clock into background noise
Waiting for my serenade
Until I was jolted up by reality
Your mornings now will still be too early for me,
Just your mornings now will never be for me
I will still never be a morning person, you see
But wake up just the same
A little too late
The remnants of that moonless darkness
Shaped like you, stretched across my face
I will lay in bed all by myself
For a little too long
As your voice slowly becomes a distant memory

I woke up half an hour late today
And stayed in bed
Until my memory brought
That sweet serenade back into my ears
And pushed me off the bed
But one day I will learn
To wake up to myself again.

Thursday, 24 November 2016

Beautiful Lies

When your thin lips
Break into a goofy smile
Touching those warm deep eyes,
Like the ocean on a June afternoon
Just right enough to dive in,
It feels like the sun breaking from the clouds,
Shooting rays of silver light
Upon a once grey sky.
When your broad chest,
Like the cliff the waves of my ocean come crashing back to,
Engulfs my smallness,
Like a warm blanket
On a January night,
It feels like cold water
Being pumped out of my lifeless lungs,
Turning my lips pink again.
When you rest your plump nose,
Like the plush pillow my forehead loves,
Against mine, looking down
Into my hyperventilating eyes,
Like the break of dawn
Upon an enraged stormy night,
It feels like every atom in my body
Is pausing and meditating,
Finally resting.
When I put my hand against your heart,
Like the universe containing galaxies after galaxies,
Your hard chest with mush inside
Becomes my home,
One I cannot let go of.
I will soon run out of similes and metaphors
Just like I will soon run out of longing and sighs
Because time, my friend, heals
Wounds that eyes miss,
That science cannot reach
And time, my friend, etches each memory onto the brain
Like scars on skin.
But as long as I haven't run out of time,
I shall not stop
Painting your picture beautiful in twisted words,
A little different each time
Like pink clouds on lilac sky.

Tuesday, 15 November 2016

Greens to Greys

I am of the kin
That grows up switching houses,
Filling them up to call our own.
In the same city, for five years
I had five homes.
Every time I'd leave,
I took a piece of it along.
The peacock feathers 
Shed in the backyard of one
Adorned the next,
Mom's hibiscus from one's garden
To another's walls.
My mere lifetime became a museum
Of doormats, lime paint and echoes in empty rooms
That reside safely 
In each of my bones
Like relics preserved,
Too precious to be displayed.
But I saw in movies 
And I saw in my grandfather, 
People I never understood
Who left pieces of their bones 
In homes,
Their hearts inside bricked walls,
Light wrecked to darkness
Like the concrete fours they lovingly built-
Until now.
Only my home is not guarded by brick walls
My home has no walls
It is vast open lands
That smell like freshly cut grass,
Clean air and chilly winds in September
My home looks like lush green forests
Residing April blossoms
And wide endless roads.
My home is not guarded by tall walls and wrought iron gates
It is guarded by greens on chests,
Combat boots,
Heavy metal on shoulders-
Infallible during mere earthquakes
That simple floods cannot corrode.
My home is not grey or white or yellow or pink
My home is green through and through
And for the first time in eighteen years,
I have been rendered completely homeless.