Moth.

My lover's life is that of a moth.

It runs and flies all around, tirelessly.

Its wings flutter and their sound echo my life.

Its failure pleases, as it drowns in me.

Laboring night and day, just to once feel me.

Consummation, is its destiny he knows, and yet

My lover struggles for more. He makes promises

Bets and swears on his life, tells me stories and fantasies.

Weaves dreams and of places to go, sings songs

And promises of memories he owes. A lot of love and

Not much to speak. He whispers several sonnets in my sleep.

And keeps me waiting for many nights.

Hopeless helpless, few may pass, I wait for him.

No appearance, and then comes another. I try not

But grow fond of him too. What happened to the love gospels?

Ah! He promises, but thou himself does not last forever,

For my lover's life is that of a moth.

The Mother.

Lets write novellas on the illusion, we were free once.
Lets build epics around the hope, we will be free soon.

Fingers entwined, one tiny another big. Two women bound.
Hands held tight, one wrinkled another young. Two women strengthened.

Wiping the floor, I have spoken tales of exuberance and grandeur.
Like Prometheus I toiled endlessly, bliss they said motherhood was.

Take this fire, my woman, my daughter. Strangle your heart with it.
It comes down from mothers and sisters. From women and grandmothers.

This fire lives in us all, it doesn't spread very violently. Nor set men on fire.
It strengthens the grip. It fuels your being, inhales life into a dry vagina.

Its heat does not conquer, its light doesn't overwhelm. It transcends color.
And the fire rides when you ride a man, rises when you cut your hair.

It doesn't die when you mother fifteen children, feed men with sticks.
Nor does it die when they encroach your body and skin you alive.

This fire is tempting. It drives them mad and they want to consume.
But it burns them alive, kills you too. But devours intruders.

Strong and violent as hell fire and calm as your mother's idols. It answers
When you ask where to go. But it floods out sometimes, isolating you.

My women, this burns in your hands and breasts. I burn in your soul
And your stare at the enemy. I shelter attacks and bring enamoring power in your eyes.


The fire, your fire, my fire. Has descended from legacy of nurturers.
My hands, my bosom, its milk. Has been sucked by greatest mortals.


I am the one, which weaker sisters ask to run away from. For I lynch their kind.
I am alive in your blood, which speaks every month. And wails.

The void which gives birth and sets the world in motion, I am that womb.
I am that axis on which you hang clothes and spin the stars to dust.

Its me they kill. Me, they murder when they come and ask for your hand.
And take you away like a pet. I weep when they ask you and you do.

I am the one you barter for love sometimes. And once you are happy in the illusion
They make sure I stay put in chains and locks. You wed happily and cook.

I give you the choice to breathe and read. I give you the chance to walk over me.
It pleases me when you choose either, but I hope you only grew stronger.

I am, the mother, the daughter, the friend, the sister, the teacher, the goddess.
I am what makes you unhappy in life. I make you choose death sometimes.

The fire of generations burns in me. And I make love to each of you.
Instilling that passion and spark. Burn brighter my lovers. You are me.

Melancholia.

Death. I am not too obsessed with this word, but I am always pondering about it. I think I died for a few days, the thirteen days when I didn't write a single word, like I lynched my soul on a pole of gold. But I saw someone I love die today. Not witnessed exactly, but she died and i remember being in her arms and loved. Few tears fell down instantly in shock and sudden grief, after that it was alright. Old people die, that's what they do.

I feel I have this illness. A kind of sickness, which makes me think of my departure the moment I enter. The city I live in and love, there are moments when I imagine myself leaving those streets and roads forever, to death or a better opportunity. Or when I am in the arms of a man, I see myself loving him whole heartedly and then in that very instant see myself drying up when he's gone. Or when I am sitting on my own and thinking of all those who love me and I have loved, I think of how few more decades and we'll be separated by death. And today when I saw my grandmother pass away, all I could feel was the sheer damage and devastation my mother's death would bring to me. I thought of that, and wailed.

There must be something soothing and pleasing in this melancholia that I keep pushing myself back and forth into it. Or maybe I keep preparing myself for the reality of the thought that alone is what everyone will ultimately be. I might not drink or smoke alone, might not even live alone, but we do die alone. And that is not sad, it is liberating and peaceful, how long will we cling on to people for happiness.

I started detesting alcohol. But now I want to feel it in my mouth and tongue, burning my throat and firing down my system with a chill so strong that it burns. I want its heat to be visible on my face and pull down my eyes, and then spread them wide in sudden rush of lust. Then feel unfulfilled and soothe with further doses, because helplessness never heals, bandage it good enough and you might just hide it.

Let's...

Spread out open, arms full of warm blood
Tempting and calling out, for a touch
A grip, a souvenir or a blade.
But it receives none. So wrap 'em round
Your chest. Hold tight. Good night.

Legs wide apart, fleshed and soft
Slightly plump but inviting. Pleading for an invasion,
A finger, a sheet or many intruders.
But it receives none. So cross them together
Sit by the window. Stare out. Its raining.

Laying bare open, chest with full breasts.
Tender and plump, waiting for a fondle,
A kiss, a mouth or a cruel clench
But it recieves none. So put your hair on them
Sit with gentle pride. Woman you are. Complete on its own.

This mind, scribbled and disturbed. High on potential
Dreams and visions, needing a catalyst
A crack, a wail or a blunderbuss
All's too late. So lets sit by the light.
Wait till it can. Light a cigarette. Set the heart on play.

Freedom and Shadows.

"You seem angry. What's wrong?'
"She doesn't see me anymore. I walk by her side when she runs, its like I am invisible."
"Do you know she is no longer with him?"
"I heard. I am happy."
"Why would you be happy?"
"Because I know she wasn't."
"How?"
"I heard her laughter, it was the most hideous and false sound I had ever heard."
"But how do you know it was because of him?"
"I heard her call his name out loud once. It cracked five times before coming out right."
"You want her too much, woman."
"How do I tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Why am I happy that she is no longer committed?"
"I don't understand. I have seen her laughing and holding hands. Smiling at the mention of his name and counting days in his wait."
"And that's beautiful?"
"That's how they define love, don't they?"

Before answering I ponder on this question, how do they define love? Is it liberating or confining? Is it happy, but what is happiness. I was never sad in my life, not in its truest sense, but still I went ahead and took my life. I know when I see a sister, I can feel it my bones, the chill of death travelling through blood like a warm tranquil drug which convinces the mind of happiness. Happiness that finds solace in other people and looks around to fall on a man or woman. The chill takes away your illusions, takes away the tiring routine of 'being happy' and an endless effort to prove yourself. Prove yourself that you are better that the image in the mirror, better than the man you love, better than the word you write. But since its all lies, it fails terribly, and we are slipped into an abyss. I stand now, on the other side of the tunnel, the part where they light is. My friend, the woman I am talking to died accidentally, wanted to tease her mother and that simply went wrong. I did it, because I could.

"Define..love..hmm."
"I know, its highly confusing."
"No, its not. I know her because I have seen her walk in this park very late at night. And she has felt me in her shadow. Scared, maybe, but she likes company which puts no weight or pressure. A company that doesn't have to feed on her for existence. And I like her for that."
"You really are, obsessed with her."
"Why shouldn't I? She is not 'free'."
"Freedom now, really?"
"Yes. Happiness puts these walls around her, enslaves her. Freedom is not completely upsetting, but gives her the confidence of losing herself, be it to insaniy or happiness."
"What now?"
"We need to do something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Get her freedom back."

Glasses.

I see you. The smudged edges of your being
Not flaws but the truth. Colors that outgrow boundaries.
Flowing out of edges, but not chaotic.
A form, a colorful persona. My love.

I see the stars. Not as little dots of silver
But bulbs of light. Like Starry Starry Night.
They are bright and moving. And the moon
Its not whole, but active in a blank sky.

I hear you, sometimes not clearly but I hear.
Words are incomplete but sound is perfect.
I try and read your lips, but they are beautiful red masses.
I see them move but know not what they mean.

The wind I can feel it on my skin.
The cold and warmth, as it gushes all over.
I try and find its traces in the trees but I see locomotive green.
Green bulges of color on brown. Moving swiftly.

And then I put my glasses back on.
The edges are clearer, the boundaries are visible.
I see some flaws and more color.
I have astigmatism, world is better without glasses.

Then and Now.

Time after time, after every fulfilling moment
While I turn off the lights, or on at night.
After every small chore and errand.
The one from our house to the shop
Or the longer run from work to home again.
Especially when I am alone, and power cuts.
I twist the ring on my finger, and keep hallucinating.

We had lunch together and coffee too.
And I am excited to see you tomorrow for dinner.
I love your voice in my ears, the earthy baritone.
The touch of your thick but not fat fingers
Your eyes, looking straight at me. Making me laugh.
Making me smile, you never speak too loud.
But I need to go home. Goodbye, don't stay too long.





Your hand got stuck while putting that shirt. I will pull it off.
The winters knock loudly. I set will make a warm bath.
The water will glide on your skin, getting lost in your hair.
I watch overwhelmed as your skin glistens.
The long day is now winding up. Sneak between the sheets
Our contours amalgamate into a beautiful form.
Don't let go. Not tonight, not tomorrow morning. Never.

Within layers of colors and laughter
Between sheets of pleasures and failures
Amongst lies of love and truths of confessions
You move effortlessly and invite me for a dance.
We move on these beats of insecurities, under flickering lights.
Is it a wonderful life, or mirage of one.
Just keeping our eyes on it, until this infinite road ends.