Red.

Red light.

In it's warmth, your fingers.

Tracing my face.

From a childhood scar

On the broad forehead, to

Few over-grown eyebrow hair.

Slowly moving to cheeks

Soft fingertips inducing a smile

Flushed cheeks and your endeavor.

From dry lips to muscles of my neck

Bathing in the soft light, you

Move slowly, not swiftly, but softly.

Contouring my neck, moving closer

Under the warming color, intimacy is effortless.

Camouflaging your desire, my need.

As your hand lowers down, you look 

Into my eyes. Smiling eyes

As if seeing something within

Beneath the exterior, and smiling.

Your hand on my breast. Feeling it palpitate.

Eyes still entwined, lips nearing

You raise another hand, cold finger on my lips

I smile, and you let all distance disappear.

Touch me, love

Tonight under this luminous shelter

Touch my skin, my heart

My breasts, my soul

My waist, my fears

My legs, my love

Touch and embrace.

And let it last, for a moment

In memory. And for ever

In this red lit room of warmth and passion.

Few.

See this,
Twenty two year old piece of flesh,
Palpitating in my hand.
They, the previous owners kept it in a funny looking box.
The box was warm.
It had a hundred holes,
But it was warm.

I began with a poem, but a gap of 24 hours and rigorous workout disintegrated my thoughts. What I was writing about was my heart and how it seems to be  in a cold strange place. Ofcourse there is the heat that keeps it alive, but the palpations don't vary too much and are neither excited. The memory of past love and warmth keeps it going and maybe, just maybe it's the refusal to step out of that past which is causing me such dullness and distress. The point I am trying to make is that I feel a perpetual melancholia haunting my days. The bags under my eyes are an evidence. Despite great love and a few very good friends, I feel sad. Most  nights I sit pondering why and others I try to be ignorant. Ignorance isn't really helpful. And all that pondering did give a result.

I am afraid. Afraid of being distanced even an inch from the people I have. A loving brother, a partner for life, a hilarious mother and a couple (2-3) friends hold the key to my sanity. And since I was very harshly disappointed in forming any new relationships in this new place I go to, I am heavily dependent on the ones that define me. The fear of being sent away even an inch from their hearts terrifies me, because if I cannot pick up the phone or board a rickshaw to the nearest solace I will slip into an abyss unknown even to me. The thing is, I love them too much and the knowledge of them loving me just as much as a life-savior but when your  personal space is so pleasantly decorated with the most beautiful embellishments one could imagine, you begin to fear even the slightest blow of wind. Crossing your heart and fingers, hoping they don't get washed away by the harshest rain you hold them very close and wrap them keeping them as safe as possible. Hopefully I am not yet on the verge of suffocating them, but it did get there through irrelevant fights and accusations. Being alone is an enjoyable experience when after days or weeks of isolation you can go and tell someone about it. It's the richness of memories in every corner of this city that makes my walking alone empowering and not depressing. Don't get me wrong. I like being alone and even want to travel so, meeting new people and all but lately a realization hit me that 'home' is instrumental to my happiness. All of my happiness. 'Home' being the people I mentioned, without them, rain is depressing and winters harshfully cold.

I don't have anything left to say. I feel selfish wanting to tuck them in a drawer and lock it forever, but the heart can afford to love only few. And few are all here, the people outside who I considered loving have been disappointing too many times and I want my love safe...in these few. As I wait for some security to kick in, I hope I don't lose track of sensibility as for some reason this distress is taking great toll on me.

This is quite calming though:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVGgGW1ZalY

Will and Would.

I chose to write about you and the song to listen along is an interesting choice. 'Cigarette Burns' held me through times of disappointments, I would put it on repeat and listen to nothing else. The singer's sharp voice was like a lullaby that put my anxieties to sleep. Is that what you do to me? Get rid of my unrest and frivolous mind and bring in peace, which is hard to find by myself.

The reason behind me writing has to do with choosing sides. Which side I want to be in and whether I want to be there with you. I think of a physical and mental space with-out you. What will I miss, what do I love and how will I be.


I will miss the way your fingers trace my body with a romance infused scientific curiosity. Anatomic fascination that fills my skin with sensations of adoration. Your rather rough fingertips slowly walking over the bones and joints of my hands and legs. I will miss your touch.

I will miss your lips. They taste homely and strangely familiar, not like entering uncharted grounds but familiar warm abode of affection. It's not because I am now accustomed to them, they have felt so since the very first kiss. And how I remember it, with hints of alcohol and coziness.

I will miss finding corners through the intimate and mobile space we already occupied. When standing on red-lights meant stealing kisses. Traffic signals would turn into painful and nostalgic pauses without you.

I will miss conversations. Words exchanged through mediums and times, throughout years and days. I will miss not knowing how time is treating you and that I would no longer be a catalyst or an alteration, reduced down to an observer.

I will miss being warm and comforted enough to fall asleep in your presence.


How will I be..


I would feel less guilty. Otherwise guilty for taking too long to take a side or decision, for keeping you for only me when I didn't know what I really wanted.

I would be miserable for some time. And wash away all modes of contact, I might even begin to hate you because then forgetting is bitter and not excruciatingly painful. Talk about you with my girlfriends and find flaws which were never there.

I would wait for time to pass. To find someone new, someone who would not remind me of you. But that hard work would fail miserably, though I will keep moving on wondering if you were as lost as me.

I would probably find peace, even if after a decade. When I will see you being with a deserving lover. Who won't dwindle and run, who would walk arm in arm with you as convincingly as I wished I could. Someone with whom I won't be thought of and probably with many such moments, you would forget me and be happy.

I would write of you, like I am doing now. And would even dedicate my first anthology to you because you helped me find my voice and no artist to could ever pay that debt. Every sentence that doesn't destine to be a poem, will resonate of your presence in my words.



Thinking now, I wonder why am I even doing this. What do I need to achieve and do I really need to walk in one specific direction. I guess yes, because it's not fair to you. It's not fair to keep you in this void of scared loving and lapses of courage. The love I have will last, and tell me my love how necessary is this choice? And how will it be if I never end up choosing?