Memories

Old thoughts -
Bitter sweet
Subtle.
Dusted into the nooks and corners
Of cobwebbed walls.
Stranded,
Incomprehensible.
Yet they are a pleasure
Though they never make you feel belonged to.
Uneasiness,
Difficult to remember.
Just like you enter the room,
And forget why exactly you are here.
A kaleidoscope of memories,
Loosely tied in a thread.
You try to make something beautiful out of it.
But the colours won't dissolve
The canvas remains empty.
The pink-orange of your heels,
Reminds me of the sunsets spent together.
I try to knit the warmth of old days-
Blue
Grey
Sew them together.
But the eye of the needle is too small,
It won't go through.
Instead
I smile.
Cause that's the most beautiful memory
I have of you.

Departures

The long winding road with no limit,
You cycle your way through
The dusty memory lanes,
Leading to azure skies and crimson sunsets.
Find happiness in old photographs,
Carefully tucked away like old receipts or faded bus tickets,
Now as unimportant as they are -
Like the fleeting permanence of love and lovers.
You say I smell like home,
On a lazy winter afternoon
Gorging on boiled rice, some kaffir lime and a pinch of salt.
Nothing fancy, yet a favourite.

Plan your life in arrival and departures.
The tilt of our smiles will tell us
When it's time for us to leave.
Then with a crumpled map in your hand,
You must make your way in search for a new home.
But till then, stay.
Won't you come over
For another day?

A fool

Burning flame melts the wax,

Dimly lights up the border of the country I love the best.

Veiled under the foam and the rising smoke from the tub,

Can you hear the splash her ankled feet makes?

Now I stand in a barren land,

Neatly arranged like rice plants in rows,

And boots covered in dirt and snow.

The clouds of despair hover above.

As we point our bayonets at each other,

I fail to distinguish between our men and the enemies.

But they had made us learn, you know.

Was it the difference of colour,

Or some personal interests disguised so?

While hiding in the trenches,

I've often closed my eyes

To find myself in a paradise with you.

Bring home toys for the children

Hear the rooms flood with their easy laughter.

But I open my bag to find,

The bones of the dead,

And the skulls of the animals

Were the only things I could get.

The memories haunt me down.

My head with each bullet fired throbs,

As my soul laid bare on the string bed starts to cringe.

I remember the days spent with you.

You were the only country whose love in me grew.

A fool.

I thought, love was the answer

To every question I knew.

The Bells.

The tree had bent old at your backyard,
Dropping fires of red on the ground.
You came visiting in the afternoons
And I assured the folks were fine.
You handed me a krishnachura,
That you kept twirling between your fingers,
While your mind kept wavering at the thoughts of a distant lover,
And smiled at my complain of not ever getting anything else.
Your eyes almost close when you laugh.
Did I tell I love the way it makes me feel?
I still got those anklets you got for me,
And said you would love to see me wear them everyday.
They are old now,
But the bells still make a sound,
Of made up memories inside my head.
I tuck them away underneath the mattress.
They annoy me for the loud noise you make.

But today I bring them down,
For my granddaughter to wear.
She has the same dusky skin
As your lover, I swear.

Favourite song

You clear your throat,

Ready to hum your favourite tune.

Give it all away to laughter,

You haven't decided which one that must be.

You travel lands to find it behind sunsets;

Or sit with your headphones on,

Scrolling through the albums.

A single white hair glistening on your forehead among all black,

As your laptop gathers dust.

Your blocked nose makes you breathe heavily,

I love listening to that tune.

Your hand strumming the guitar;

You ask me my favourite song,

Unaware that you are it.

You've always been.

So I just smile.

I smile at you. 

I'll find you

In the vapours rising from the hot cup of tea,

And the ring it leaves behind on the table,

I'll find you.

In the smokes arising from the vehicles,

And in the long wait at traffic signals on a sultry summer day,

I'll find you.

In the colourful jars of pickle laid out in the afternoon sun,

And in the laughter of children from stolen joy,

I'll find you.

In the mingled call of the cuckoo at dawn,

And the red lit sky of my dusk,

I'll find you.

In the unfinished books of tales untold,

And inbetween monotony of daily chores,

I'll find you.

In the thunder of the French revolution,

And in the raindrops falling on the warzone countries,

I'll find you.

In the grocery list of daily needs,

And the unsend letters hidden under the mattresses,

I'll find you.

I'll find you, I'll find you,

In the years to come with every greying hair,

And poetry left unfinished for the lack of muse,

And children that I have to take to school.

But tell me, in all your broken dreams

And dusty corners,

Do you find me too?

Do I?

Neon lights outline your collarbone on strange nights,
Marking the map of the city I love the most.
Do you still walk along the shoreline,
With the sand and shells jingling in your pockets,
And the wind in your hair?
Was it the dusk or dawn that we watched together,
I cannot remember well...
Is it all far gone?
Do I still play in the strings of your violin
Or in the sonnets you say you love?
Stole kisses like we stole pickels,
Laid out in jars in winter afternoon sun.
Fantasies paved the road,
But for our bare feet it was a long way.
Grey and old, turned to dust
We'll meet another day,
Maybe some constellations away.
Till then, tell me,
Do I reside in your poetry,

As you do in mine every single day?